The Witcher: A Deep Mark
by MorrisB
Summary: After saving the world from the White Frost, Ciri was assumed dead by Emhyr and was free to pursue her career as a witcher. Her new lifestyle would not last long; after an encounter with a strange bounty hunter, her powers are suddenly gone and she is captured. Soon, Ciri and all her loved ones become entangled in a conspiracy that may well decide the fate of the northern kingdoms.
1. Chapter 1

**The Witcher: A Deep Mark**

Author's Notes:

\- This writing heavily references both the Witcher novels and the video game series. If you are unfamiliar with either, you may not get the full experience out of reading this fic.

\- Chronologically, this story takes place after the events of The Witcher III: Wild Hunt and the second dlc (Blood and Wine), with the first dlc (Hearts of Stone) considered resolved before the ending of either. It relies on the "Ciri becomes a wicher" ending as a starting point.

\- Contains swearing and violence. As can be expected of the Witcher's world.

Thanks for your attention and have fun reading!

 **Chapter 1.**

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, alias Ciri, strode through the forest path with casual carelessness, a heavily laden bag swung over her shoulder. For all the ruckus the villagers were raising over the Nekker infestation in the woods, the little wretches have proven far less a challenge than the larger monsters she has dealt with in the past. In all honesty, carrying proof of their demise all the way back was more of hassle than the actual combat. The tiny devils, even shorter than she was, tried their best to swarm her, even popping out of the ground like prematurely rotten daisies to tackle her by surprise. Not the wisest approach against a huntress who could rapidly teleport. Even the "chieftain" of the group - a big, gluttonous slab of lard such as it was - went down with a singular strike at the left neck artery and bled out whilst Ciri busied herself mopping up the rest of the rabble and tossing a few bombs around for good measure, destroying their dug-out dwellings and breeding holes.

Originally, she wanted to bring the heads as was the custom of her trade, but realizing the exact number of her victims in hindsight, she was forced to settle for cutting off the ears instead. It took longer than the actual battle itself. With her bag reeking of bloodsoaked hearing organs, her journey back to the village that agreed to hire her services was unhindered; the animals, at the very least, stayed their distance. Bandit threats have been unheard of in these parts recently, which made her walk all the more peaceful. Though, sincerely, she wagered it was the Nekkers who drove out outlaws in the first place. Now that she has done her job, sooner or later criminals will make this forest their hideout again... until some other monstrosity moves in... and then a witcher will be needed once more... ah, the circle of life - and the economy to support the future of witchers. She was humming to herself to pass her time, mimicking whatever tune she heard from birds in the distance.

It has been several months since she started walking the Path on her own, unsupervised by Geralt. She had been fairly productive, and on a couple of occasions, her spreading fame already got ahead of her. Initially, she had to put up with loads and heaps of skepticism, dismissal, or alternatively, folklore-bred superstition and ignorance. "No such thing of a female witcher", they said. Whenever she proved her detractors wrong? Full swing to the other direction: "Eww, a filthy mutant! And now they even kidnap women!" - or something along those lines. But the radiant faces and kind words of thankful clients, of mothers and fathers not having to fear for their children's lives - that was worth much more than mere silver or gold. It kept her on the Path, and she wagered that deep down, this is what drove Geralt himself throughout so many years. Well, this and the genuine excitement the Path offered to those who treaded it.

Nevertheless, she was conscious enough to know where she should stride and where she should not. She stayed up in the northern provinces, far from her father's nearly all-encompassing empire. Her biological father discovering her survival was the last thing she needed in her new life - not to mention the calamity that might bring upon the witcher and the sorceress who actually gave her attention and care in her youth. Currently, she was passing relatively near an abandoned, overgrown manor that once belonged to someone called Aeramas, a fair distance to the east from Oxenfurt. She might as well take a look at that later once she's paid, might be something worthwhile in there. At least the view will be amazing, she thought. In the meantime, however, she'd be going back to the village where she was a welcome traveler; as it turned out, Geralt himself passed by once, and since then witchers were appreciated. This was a scarcity, and she wouldn't refuse aid when the job was offered, even if the compense seemed otherwise paltry.

By the time she got back, night has dawned, and the Moon was shining like a silvery orb illuminating the hovels of the small community from above. When she finally reached her destination, she let go of the bag, which spilled some of its content across the hardened, breeze-chilled soil. What would await her was not relief, not a sense of satisfaction over a job well-done and compensation earned; but her jaw dropping in surprise, and the stench of ripe slaughter invading her nostrils. The village lay silent as the grave, save for the cawing of crows, content with the bountiful feast presented before them at this early evening.

Ciri drew her silver sword, having decided to take a closer look. A few fireplaces and torches have been knocked over, but at this time of year, during the decay of autumn, ever nearing the brink of winter, they did not have the strength or fuel to spread anywhere. Yet signs of fighting were all over the place, as were corpses of women and men, many of them unarmed, blood and viscera staining the floor of their homes. Ciri examined the wounds and miscellaneous tidbits of damage done to woodwork. They all bore the same kinds of injury; gaping wide-torn marks, done with brutal precision much like a sword would cut, yet mangling flesh and timber alike as if a beast rent through them with a single oversized hooked claw. Was this the work of marauders? She looked to the footprints, as much as she could make them out in the ground surface; her only aid were the bloodstains in determining the number of the attackers.

Just one. Only _one_.

As she came to this realization, she was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. The possibilities as to who or what could have carried out this slaughter were fairly limited. Perhaps a higher vampire, or alternatively, someone extremely masterful with a weapon - a fellow witcher? Ciri remembered Geralt telling him of someone from the Cat school wiping out a village single-handedly. Ciri steadied herself, reaffirming her grip on the handle before going in further between the sad, empty houses. - "Just great." - she sighed. She felt like she was getting the hang of the trade, these peasants were actually receptive of her. There was even a bypassing young bard with an orange-colored, feathered hat who reminded her of Dandelion, singing some song of praise about a previous undertaking of hers back in Ursten. And there was the barkeep's daughter too, around her age, who looked at her like some infatuated puppy, giving her a free round, wishing her the best of luck.

And now lo and behold: some butchery-bent lunatic just _absolutely_ had to kill them all while she wasn't there! It was all too infuriating. - "Melitele help me, when I find out who did this, I'm going to..." - Ciri whispered in a hissing tone, but didn't finish muttering her promise of excessive violence; she took notice as some crows flew away, and as their annoying voices left her hearing range, some other sounds crept closer to her. She faintly heard the trampling of a pair of thick leather boots. _Good_. She wouldn't have to keep tracking the bastard. He was coming to her instead. She tightened her hold on her sword, and gracefully, step by step, approached the direction where she suspected the culprit was trampling.

A tune was carried in the faint wind; Ciri couldn't make it out first, but then the voice of the man became clearer with every step. It was a deep baritone, oddly soothing, calm and reserved; not something one would expect of a serial killer.

" _Wolves asleep amidst the trees, bats all a'swaying in the breeze..._ "

Ciri couldn't help but pause for a second. She knew that song. She turned right after the next wall she passed by, grinding her teeth behind closed lips in anticipation. A few more spaces, and she'll be out in the open - much like her would-be opponent, or so she wagered.

" _But one soul lies anxious, wide awake..._ "

She stepped out to the open, well-trodden main street, the moonlight shining down brightly. And there he was, as expected; he was a lean man clad largely in black leather: boots, gloves, gambeson, worn over a beige shirt and some ugly green trousers. His hair and beard were sickly gray, his face sunken, with a couple of dreadful icy eyes, and a large, beak-like nose protruding forth. He carried with him some long iron chains with cuffs, wrapped and folded over his chest. At his side, he had a sword in a sheath, and his gloves and shoulder pads featured some crude metallic spikes, blatantly explicit of their bearer's sinister nature. And most peculiar of all: he had a medallion - very much like that of a witcher, but of no school that Ciri recognized.

Was he a witcher? That seemed implausible, considering the man clearly had normal, if fearsome eyes rather than the puss peepers that the witcher Trials resulted in. At any rate, he was holding one hand up, index finger extended, spinning an orange silk cap with a feather that Ciri immediately knew belonged to that kindly bard, now most likely counted amongst the fallen. The man seemed unphased by Ciri's sudden appearance; he continued his walk with paced-out, disciplined steps, almost theatrical with his body gestures as he finished the first part of his song:

" _...fearing all manner of ghouls, hags and wraiths._ "

With that, he stopped, letting the headwear rest in his hand, putting a faint smile on his face. Ciri got the message; he was the show-off type. He wanted her to address him. The distance between them was fairly large, thirty foot or some more; he couldn't charge her without her expecting it. With that in mind, she lowered her blade, placed one hand on her hip before speaking up: - "Nice poem. But outdated and unbefitting. Witchers fear nothing." - the man stayed silent, apart from nodding ever so slightly, with a humoured glint in his eyes. Ciri pressed further: - "Who are you?"

The man seemed contemplative for a drawn-out moment. - "The ghost of Leo Bonhart. I came for your soul and titties. Boo-hoo!" - he said, chuckling mildly.

Ciri was not amused one bit, rolling her eyes in an irritated manner. - "Oh ha-ha. So funny I can barely laugh." - she kept a momentary silence as well before continuing: - "This massacre is your handywork, I assume?"

"Guilty as charged." - the man shrugged, entirely relaxed. - "It was in self-defense, mind you. I killed only those who raised arms. The rest, I let flee."

"How noble of you." - Ciri scoffed, her voice filled with contemptuous mockery. - "I can't imagine though why they would had been so disapproving of your presence."

The man dropped the one-time bard's fancy hat down to the dirt. - "Simple, really. They asked me what the hell I wanted. Now, miss, I'm an honest man, so I told them I was looking for a witcheress. They asked me why. I told them I wanted to catch her and slap this iron cuff around her neck. They objected with clubs and pitchforks. The rest..." - he extended his hand, waving it about, calling Ciri's attention to the miserable, abandoned wood-planked huts - "Well, it escalated quickly and ended abruptly, as the saying goes."

Ciri frowned, anger swelling within her. So, he not merely killed wantonly. Whoever he was, he was actively out for blood, hunting her specifically; and these folks, instead of selling her out behind her back, stood up for her, only to be cut down like helpless sheep, facing a ravenous predator. - "Normally, a witcher should not kill humans." - she stated as she took up a basic opening stance, with her sword pointing towards the butcher. - "But for you, I'll make an exception."

"If that's the case, switch weapons, lady." - the man raised her awareness to the fact she had her silver sword in her hand. - "That sword is for monsters."

He folded his arms, patiently waiting. Ciri, albeit begrudgingly, sheathed her silver sword and simultaneously drew the steel one with her other hand. Her eyebrows were twitching as she shifted her stance to a defensive one, wordlessly demanding the asshole to make the opening move. He, however, would not comply. - "Ladies should go first. We both know how this ends, so let me make it easier on you." - he turned around, arms stretched out, hands empty: - "Here, my back is exposed. How's that?"

Ciri's so far suppressed fury was reaching a boiling point. - "Rest assured, when you die, you'll be facing me." - she declared, and with long steps, she began to rush, then lunge, preparing to shift across the layers of the material realm to teleport, so she'd make good on her promise and skewer the madman from the front before he'd even begin to turn around...

...except that didn't come to pass. She stayed airborne as she leapt, her lunge insufficient to cover the distance between the man and her before gravity reclaimed its dominion over her. Frightened by her sudden loss of power, she shifted hold of her sword and turned the lunge into a rolling manouver, only for the man to turn about, dropping to one knee as he did, with his other leg extended, doing a swift swooping motion. His move didn't hit Ciri, but some of the dust and dirt his wide-footed boot kicked up landed in her face. She got back to her feet yelping, as her eyes watered themselves in instinctual response to the stingy foreign materials invading her sight; she was making short leaps backwards to distance herself until she got her eyesight back, wildly swinging her sword around.

She got imbalanced as she felt something hard hitting her on the head; most likely a tossed stone. Next thing she knew, she tripped, her sword dropping from her loosening grip. The man did not waste the opportunity; he closed the distance with ease and began wrestling her down. Ciri would not go down easily; she kicked the man first with her knee first, right in the stomach. He let out a grunt, but gritting his teeth, he kept up his offense and retaliated with a short kick of his own. Ciri felt the air forced out of her lungs as she dropped to the ground, but she didn't give up. She pushed her left elbow up, meeting the man's jaw. He dropped on his behind as he lost balance himself. Ciri's sight was still a hazy mess, but she could make out the sword she dropped. She reached out; just one swing, and she'd either give him a nasty cut or force him to back off...

The man was having none of it. Using his longer limbs, he hurled himself towards Ciri, holding her arm down with one hand and grabbing into her hair next. Ciri lashed out, swinging her head up in the man's nose, her hair ring ripping in the process. The man disregarded her attempts to break free of his hold, grunting angrily as he grabbed to her hair once again and wrenched her face down to the ground, then knelt with one leg upon her hand. She made one last counterattack with her free left hand, trying to backhand her attacker, but she simply couldn't muster enough momentum to be forceful. Fed up with her, the man raised her head by the hair and slammed it against the earth once. Twice. Thrice...

What started out in Ciri's heart as righteous anger was turning to a kind of sensation she thought she would never feel again, for she got superb at repressing it: she was afraid and vulnerable. The man forced her down, and unfolding the chains from his vest, he soon made good on his threat, cuffing her neck, her hair hurting as its long wave got caught in the metal's merciless embrace. She was defeated, crying out in pain.

The man was more annoyed than tired after his endeavor. - "That's it, little swallow. Let it all out." - he said, spitting on her. - "But don't worry; you'll soon have company. And you'll have the honor of watching the White Wolf expire before you."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Witcher: A Deep Mark**

 **Chapter 2.**

A few days later in Oxenfurt, the aforementioned witcher gladly submerged himself in a tub of hot water with Yennefer beside him. They were cleaning themselves in the aftermath of their latest erotic adventures atop Yen's stuffed unicorn. Her insistance to ferry that thing around literally everywhere was astounding, as were the related transportation fees. But Geralt was not one to complain; he had his own brand of royally espoused wine and an entire estate churning it out back at Touissant, both courtesy of her highness Anna Henrietta. Apart from his regular exercising and his spars with Ciri whenever she visited, the aging witcher seldom bothered taking contracts anymore these past months - and whenever he did, it was out of habitual needs than financial worries. Yennefer was teasing him in accordance that he'd be wasting away in retirement, and that, odds are, he'll die amidst pillows, or atop her favourite equine-shaped fetish object. Geralt hearthily responded in turn that nothing would give him greater pleasure. Yen seemed awfully content with this.

For now, they have taken a break from Touissant's ever peaceful and idyllic scenery, journeying back to the north at the invitation of Triss Merigold for a friendly reunion, for old times' sake. The romantic animostities between the three of them have long been sorted out, and the witcher's and sorceress' stay in the city had been a pleasant one thus far. The war was stopping, however temporarily. Following the demise of Caleb Menge, and especially king Radovid, the Church of the Eternal Fire would inevitably come to blows with the more worldly, politically oriented Redenian nobility. The sole person who could have acted as a unificary force, Sigismund Dijkstra, was no longer around either, his life ended by Geralt's blade in defense of Vernon Roche and his fellows. The remaining power groups had to face up to reality: without a strong central figurehead, submission to Nilfgaard was unavoidable. Hence, they sat down to try a diplomatic approach, hoping to preserve their titles and privileges. Emhyr var Emreis was open to negotiations, but he had the upper hand, and an undisputably bigger military.

Momentarily, the war was put on a halt; the two sides called for a ceasefire for the duration of the negotiations. The church called off its mage-hunts, and public persecution of non-human became significantly less frequent as both the landowners and the clergy had much more pressing matters to focus on. The general populace was breathing sighs of relief on the streets; life was returning to normal in Oxenfurt, its famed academy warmly welcoming its students and tutors back. Triss could take walks on the streets unhooded, and was considering signing up for a part-time magic theory lecturer at the academy. It was not a far-fetched idea; whatever terms Redenia would negotiate with the empire, it would inevitably touch upon the subject of magic users. Nilfgaard, whilst strict in regulating its magicians, would not cull them pointlessly like Radovid did. Dandelion himself wrote in a letter not long ago that he'll be seizing this vaunted chance to expand his enterprise, and open up a second tavern in the seat of his former scholarly pursuits. He sent Zoltan to measure up a few estates, Dandelion himself being too occupied with running the Rosemary and Thyme - and, more truthfully, frolicking with Priscilla at every opportunity. If nothing else, Geralt was looking forward to meeting Zoltan again.

Yennefer was moaning peacefully, until she turned her head the other way to feel the Sun's rays. - "Oh... the Sun is that high already? I'm going to be late for meeting with Triss!" - she realized, and hurriedly got out of the tub, drying herself with a towel, and began dressing in an outfit that could have been qualified fairly plain as far as her usual clothing choices were concerned.

Pushing himself up by the tub's rims with his elbows, Geralt sat, observing her curves as the black silk smoothed itself out against her skin. - "You know Yen, I'm been thinking you might actually be keeping something away from me." - he stated, before elaborating: - "Triss yesterday seemed... how to put it... _tense_. I could just read it off of her, even despite her tipsyness. And now, asking you for a private chat..."

"Oh hush, Geralt." - she shot his arguement down. - "You heard her out, didn't you? Unless you were half-sodden yourself, too. She's just disappointed that she didn't get that advisory position in Kovir that she wanted so much. And you know how just bare weeks ago, this town had witch hunters patrolling the main streets? Not exactly invoking good memories for her."

"Mmmh, yeah. You have a fair point." - Geralt nodded in acknowledgement, folding his arms behind his head. - "Or, this could be one of your secret Lodge of Sorceresses' slumber parties and you're keeping me out of loop deliberately."

Yennefer turned her head to meet Geralt's gaze, her stare sparking up with irritation. - "Ugh, Geralt! Honestly...! We've talked this over a hundred times. On my part, the Lodge is done, finished. Philippa can keep running and wrecking whatever is left of it for all I care. Last time she tried to contact me was... oh come on, you were there!"

"Oh. Right. _That_ time." - Geralt stared blankly before himself, remembering the occasion all too well - some time following the defeat of the Wild Hunt, and Ciri saving the world, he and Yennefer were mounting her infamous inanimate mare for a maraton-lenght ride when Philippa attempted a projected conversation through the megascope Yennefer forgot to power down. They were right at the peak of joy when her illusionary reflection showed up and interrupted them with her inelegant, shocked rephoaches; this resulted in Yennefer demolishing the megascope with a fireball, and burning down half the tavern they were renting a room at in Skellige. They only survived because Yennefer would hastily teleport the two of them to the outside - with the unicorn included - and landing in the snowy landscape naked. Consequentially, the two women's relationship had become rather chilly.

Yennefer tilted her head upwards as she reached for a brush and started fixing her hair. - "Well, that's settled then, I believe. Zoltan should be coming later today, from what I recall. You two hit the pubs, play gwent, or whatever it is you men do when I'm not around." - she said, then suddenly put down the brush with a loud knock. - "My wardrobe and megascope are _strictly_ off-limits."

Geralt merely shrugged, hazily recalling the drunken antics he and his fellow witchers committed themselves to at one time in Kaer Morhen. - "Point taken."

It was late in the afternoon already, and Geralt was getting quite bored sorting through his gwent decks. He was also done polishing his swords and medallion, read a few random articles from Yennefer's books, and even did a half-hearted cleanup after the bath, which was a clear indication of how low his mood was sinking. Finally, however, there was a loud thudding noise outside, followed by someone knocking on the door of the tavern room they have been renting with Yen for their stay. - "It's open!" - Geralt said to whoever was outside.

Zoltan Chivay entered, his cheeks painted in a rosy shade. - "Geralt! It's been ages!" - he came bumbling in.

Geralt damn nigh jumped up from the armchair he was sitting in, ready to exchange a friendly pat on the back. - "That's what you always say. What took you so long? Trouble in town?" - he inquired.

"Something akin to that, yea." - Zoltan said. - "Had to check places all over bloody Oxenfurt for that dandy Dandelion to rent. But he wrote you, didn't he? I actually found a fancy spot, right beside the Western Gate, ripe for renovation! Just had to barter the price with that scrawny wimp of an owner."

Geralt folded his arms, leaning against the wall. - "Let me guess: it belonged to one of the families involved with the academy?"

"Aye, the _de Lomvards_ , or what the fuckever they call themselves. This one was named Viscont, an inksucker in training. More like 'wise-I'm uncultured', if you ask me, too bad he ain't either. His family had a long unused furniture storehouse. Got a twenty percent discount on the deal after we drank a few rounds and I agreed to do some favours for him." - Zoltan explained, with a wide smile, wholly satisfied with his achievement.

"Namely?" - Geralt pressed the matter further.

"Booted some bastards who picked on him. Then some vagrants who took to dwellin' in the storehouse. Aaand..." - he kept a dramatic pause - "...I may or may not have signed you up for an interview."

Geralt blinked. - "Excuse me?"

"That Viscont lad is doing his bloody research on witcher history, of all things. I brought you up by chance in conversation after the deal was done, so he leapt on the chance like dung beetle on a shiteheap. Almost started kissing me boots downright, the syrup sipper! Swore to throw in another ten percent if I arrange it. Had to kick 'im off me, told him I'll see what I can do." - The witcher let loose a disapproving stare, to which Zoltan raised his hands defensively. - "Don't stare like that, Geralt! I promised nothing for certain. Won't press you into nothing. But come now, you could be recorded in history like you truly deserve!"

"Oh right. And you will get that extra ten percent, all at the expense of my good nature." - Geralt remarked dryly, but still couldn't help but smile. - "Well, go ahead and try to persuade me. Got wine and gwent at the table both. Ready to taste Touissant's newest royally endorsed liquid wonder product?"

"Aye! But not alone. See, I brought someone along!" - he trotted to the door, yelling down the stairs while Geralt stood confounded, curious. - "Pick yourself up already, you meek shite of a witcher!" - his demand was met with painful moans, followed after with slow, burdensome limping upwards, until Geralt saw the all too familiar face.

"Lambert!" - he recognized him rather easily from his attire; his fellow witcher from the school of the Wolf was dead tired, walking rather oddly, keeping his legs apart a bit as he took his steps. - "What happened to you? Are you injured?"

"Hi, Geralt. Nice to see you, too." - Lambert replied, and from his weary but typically jerky voice, Geralt already knew he was going to keep on living. - "I was just passing by in town, ran into Zoltan. We hooked up. As for my legs..." - he kept a bit of a pause, seemingly embarrassed. - "Let's just say... Keira and I are still together, and she has some wild taste in poses."

Geralt let out a little chuckle, along with Zoltan who was much less subtle about it. For once, Geralt though, someone else in the world was suffering more than him. Zoltan skipped the unnecessary further chatter: - "Gentlemen, come now, we haven't got all day before your ladies drag you both off! Let's savour the occasion. Pouches out, let liquor flow!"

And so they got down to business. Zoltan had a refreshed Scoia'tael setup, and Lambert assembled a brand new Monster deck. They had a few tricks up their sleeve, but still, Geralt carried on, and a couple of initial losses paved his way to success. Lambert and Zoltan both paid up in orens, while Geralt cunningly offered a choice between coin and his personal brand of booze anytime he lost. It was an all too obvious what his friends would decide in favour of.

"Well, well! Who would have thought! Geralt of Rivia, bane of monsters, learned to run a bloody fine winery!" - Zoltan nodded in admiration after the first tasting.

"What can I say? I was lucky to hire some professional staff." - Geralt leaned back on his armchair, stretching his legs under the table. - "Still, the end result surprised me too. Ciri carried a few bottles off herself last time she visited."

Lambert finished downing his shot. - "Cirilla, hm? You're spoiling her, I tell you. First, a masterwork silver sword, then you let her borrow one of your steel ones... Vesemir made us sweat blood and tears to earn our own back in the day."

"I am not Vesemir to make her run the drills 'till she drops wheezing, and she's not quite the same class as us." - Geralt stated. - "Rest assured, I'm expecting the steel sword back. Told her she's got to earn money for her own with proper work. Have to keep her motivated somehow."

"Telling a wee lass to slay monsters for a piece of coal-enriched iron? Responsible parenting at its finest!" - Zoltan grinned mockingly, albeit he was fully aware that there was absolutely nothing that posed much of a threat to Ciri. - "Where is the dearie these days, anyhow?"

"Last we spoke was in Touissant. She said she'd be up here in the north for a while, maybe go to Novigrad to visit some friends. Haven't kept tabs on her, but you both know she's all grown up. She can look out for herself." - Geralt answered, before looking to Lambert. - "What about you and Keira Metz, Lambert? I never took you for the type to be interested in Dandelion's favourite city."

"Rest assured, I am not." - Lambert shrugged as he poured another swig. - "We're just passing through. I heard monsters were moving in to the east in a few spots, and Keira is interested in some plants which grow in the region. Being a village witch seems to have rubbed off on her somewhat." - he smirked. - "Oh right, and just the day before yesterday, she got this message on her megascope from Triss. She wanted to speak with her in private or something. Thought it was odd, but I said fine by me! My man-parts could use a rest."

All too suddenly, Geralt began sobering up. - "Wait. Triss messaged her? We met her with Yennefer just previous day. She also wanted to chat face to face with her. And you say Keira is involved too?"

There was a bout of silence in the room. Lambert furrowed his eyebrows. - "You think... they are doing that Lodge business again?"

"Possible." - Geralt emphasised his agreement with a firm nod. - "Or even if not, I think it could be something serious. Triss at the very least seemed somewhat out of her element. She acted all cheerful as usual, but her body language betrayed her. It was like... like when she agreed to enter the witch hunters' captivity as a ruse. That sort of unconscious, barely visible, but still sensible quivering and uncertainty. That's the impression I got."

"But the witch hunts are over!" - Zoltan raised his hands up vehemently. - "Caleb fucking Menge and flaccid cock-sucking Radovid are busy rotting six feet under, you've seen to that!"

"Sssh, not that loud, you crazy dwarf!" - Lambert warned Zoltan. - "Remember where we are. This is still Redenia."

Zoltan hushed immediately, muttering some barely audible apologies. Geralt was sinking into his thoughts. - "Say... either of you heard anything peculiar here in Oxenfurt? Something related to mages? Lodge members in particular?"

The two friends got thinking. Zoltan sounded up first. - "Nay, not a thing. But you know, maybe we're blowing things out of proportion. I'm betting half my beard the three of them are just debating new exciting ways they will be humping the two of you next."

Lambert snickered at the notion of that. - "Heh, wouldn't be surprised. But honestly, hearing anything of the sorceresses? Nah, can't say I did. Keira isn't keen on the whole Lodge thing anymore. Caught her chatting on megascope with Margarita and Fringilla every now and then, but only casual stuff. Or at least not politics." - he kept a brief pause before continuing: - "Biggest news I've heard in Oxenfurt is that a village near Aeramas' Manor was attacked."

"Whose manor?" - Geralt inquired, confused.

"Aeramas' Manor." - Lamber repeated. - "Habitat to some cheese-addled wizard? Where you got that smelling junk of a blade?"

"Ahh." - Geralt remembered. - "That place. So, who were the attackers?"

"Attacker." - Zoltan said instead of the other witcher. - "As in, a single person. I heard the news, too, from that Viscont kid. His family has a hand in the woodcutter business there, and he overheard some things they discussed with his old man. From what I was told, the deed was done by a witcher."

Geralt raised an eyebrow inquisitively. - "A witcher? Someone of the Cat school, perhaps? Some members might still be on the prowl."

"That's what I'm thinking too." - Lambert said. - "But things are a bit weirder than that. One version I got word of involved two witchers - as in, the villagers hired one for a contract. The other came to the village later that day, and wanted to hurt the one who took the contract first. Maybe some personal grudge, I don't know. Some of the peasants told him off - as in, threatened to throw him out. He didn't take kindly to it, hence the bloodbath."

"So what of the first witcher?" - Geralt asked. - "Did he make it out?"

Lambert shook his head. - "No confirmation on it. But at least, there weren't that many casualties. About a score or so men, including an academy student, and three adult women. Each had weapons on them - knives, pitchforks, clubs, hatchets, rolling pins... the rest of the inhabitants got away safely."

"So whoever did it is indeed pretty skilled. Worked with a steady hand. But wasn't entirely out of his mind. Someone professional." - Geralt summed it up. - "Disturbing, and, if witcher business, is something we should look into. But that's no reason for Yen, Triss and Keira to be concerned, is it?"

The three of them were in agreement: no, it is not indeed.

That is, until someone uninvited came knocking. The three of them exchanged meaningful glances. Zoltan reached for his axe, which he almost always carried with himself nowadays; Lambert got a grip on his sheathed sword, and slipped to the window, checking the view with his cat-like eyes for potential perpetrators. Geralt himself took off his steel sword that he hanged on the wall, and approached the door. - "Who is it?"

"Oxenfurt courier service!" - came the swift reply in a high pitched, but decidedly masculine tone. - "I am to deliver express mail to Geralt of Rivia! I understand he's renting a room here?"

Geralt looked to his companions. Lambert signalled him that there was no danger on the outside as far as he could tell. Geralt lowered his sword a bit. - "Your information is correct, but, um... I'm sick and might be infectuous. Just slide the letter and whatever you need signed underneath the doorframe."

"Aye, as you wish it, sir! You are enlightened to be so medically conscious!" - the heartfelt compliment was soon followed by two pergamen parchments, one stamped with Oxenfurt's town emblem - the certificate that the document was passed on to the right person - and the other bore a more forebowing seal: that of the Church of the Eternal Fire. Geralt quickly filled out the certificate and passed it back, along with a couple of silver coins to tip the vocally effeminate courier, who departed with a multitude of gratious pleasantries. He picked up the letter to examine it, only for a couple of items to fall out of it.

Zoltan came to scrape them up the floor. - "You've dropped somethin- ...wait a bloody moment." - his eyes widened in shock. He was holding up a textile eyefold and a couple of owl feathers, which the two witchers found immediately familiar.

"Those are from Philippa!" - Lambert exclaimed, before turning to Geralt. - "Quick, what does that damn letter say?!"

Geralt read feverishly. He was expecting nothing good, but what was written upon that sheet of tanned animal skin was something right out of his nightmares. - "This letter is for me, specifically, to meet someone anonymus at the Hanged Men's Tree... and they..." - he paused, re-reading what he saw because he did not want it to be true. - "They have taken Ciri."

Deafening silence descended. Lambert was the first to break it after half a minute that seemed uncomfortably long. - "That's absurd! Capturing Ciri? If the Wild Hunt couldn't do it, nobody can! Impossible! Geralt, this is a setup to catch you, nothing else!" - he tried making sense of the situation.

"If that is so, how did the writer of this letter knew about Ciri?" - he posed the question rhetorically. - "Everyone beside the few of us believes her dead and gone, her father included. The Redenians weren't ever looking for her in the first place. And now, here's this parchment with a witch hunter seal on it to boot!"

"Witch hunters?" - Zoltan rubbed his beard. - "As in, the bastards out for mages, right? But then, this means... they got their hands on Philippa Eilhart of all people! Maybe even other Lodge members through her, too!" - he theorized.

"None of whom were defenseless damsels, as we all well know." - Geralt added. - "If they could track down her, and found a way to neutralize her magic... Philippa was always keenly interested in Ciri." - he walked in a circle around the room, linking one thought to the next as he paced about. - "It stands to reason she would be skeptical of her disappearence. Maybe she was looking for her, tracing her movement. And by extension, they found Ciri, who was up here in the north, taking contracts, and..."

Geralt's face went so pale as the realization sunk in, that his veins were bulging against his skin, as if toxic with potions without having taken any. - "The two witchers near the manor... that was no coincidence. The first could very well had been Ciri, while the second witcher must have been someone affiliated with the church, and got Ciri off-guard. That bastard got her." - he wrenched the letter between his clenched fists.

"So what are we waiting for?!" - Zoltan grabbed his axe enthusiastically. - "I got the solution right here!"

"Shouldn't we tell Keira and the others about this?" - Lambert brought up the touchy subject.

Geralt thought the idea over, but shook his head in the end. - "No. Yen, Triss and Keira broke contact with Philippa, therefore she couldn't share information about them. If the witch hunters found some new way to neutralize magic users, the best thing we can do is keep them out of this. Additionally, Oxenfurt is now officially open to mage visitors again, including imperial ones. That includes Yen, given her former ties with Emreis. There will be a diplomatic uphaeval if the witch hunters would start a mess here while the church is debating with Nilfgaard. Yen and the others will stay safest if we don't involve them and they remain inside the city." - such was his reasoning.

"And how do you plan to accomplish that?" - Lambert asked, folding his arms.

"I'll figure something out." - Geralt dismissed the issue momentarily. - "In the meantime, the writer didn't explicitly state I should come alone. So... let's get dangerous."

With that said, Zoltan went to his place to fetch his gambeson, and then to the blacksmith to buy a few... accessories, one could say. Lambert also set out to collect his belongings. Geralt pulled a heavy, locked crate from underneath the bed, containing his own gear. Soon, he was strapped in his Wolf school armor, two swords on back, belt and pouches laden with potions and bombs, plus the letter stuffed away in a pocket, his mind focusing on the task at hand. It didn't matter who caused this turn of events; someone out for vengeance for Radovid or Dijkstra, someone from Nilfgaard masquarading in Redenian colours, or even Gaunter O'fucking'Dimm himself, they will _pay_ _in blood_.

When all was done, he was ready to storm out of the room in full combat regalia, only to awkwardly turn back for a minute. He got out pergamen and ink, writing a brief note for Yennefer, then left the room, locking it, and leaving the key with the barkeep.

The note's content?

 _"Met Zoltan and Lambert. The three of us will be hanging around town. Also, Lambert and I took a contract. Expect me to come back very late. Please keep Triss company in the meantime. Thanks. Love you: Geralt."_


	3. Chapter 3

**The Witcher: A Deep Mark**

 **Chapter 3.**

Ciri found herself kneeling a forest, not entirely unlike the one she had been walking through all too recently - and yet, there was no comfort to be found in this familiarity, for she was surrounded by shadow and flame. The ground was drowned in a mixed layer of dried blood and scattered ashes; the trees wept stygian amber, and the soil rotted wherever they dripped. Sulfury smoke circulated about, grotesque humanoid shapes within dancing around Ciri in a frenzy of fire. There was nothing and nobody left to be found around her; nothing beside her, save for her silver sword, Zirael - malformed by heat and pressure, covered in soot blown over it by a malignant, low-swooping gale, like a bubonic plague infected drunkard's vomit.

Still, Ciri felt unthreatened by the chaos around her. There was this unshakable feeling within her that no matter how far and wide this inferno spreads, it will not, cannot reach her. Nor did it. A disquieting confinement to solitude was the worst consequence the ever more lengthily stretching tongues of flame could menace her with. Dismissing the incendiary blight around her, Ciri picked up Zirael, and began to polish the stains off with her gloved hands. It was easier than expected, and, as if the weapon reacted to the empathy of its wielder, the metal readjusted itself; the blade straightened out, the edge renewed. This briefly brought a smile to Ciri's face, before she took notice of how in the crystal clear surface of the blade, there was not one, but two pairs of eyes reflected: hers, a duet of green; and the other wholly black, like those of an animal watching over her curiously.

She lifted her gaze, turning her head around to try and find whatever the other pair of eyes belonged to. Gentle chirping crept into her ears, alluring her to raise her head high and look behind her. She beheld the source: a majestic, mature swallow, perching on the branch of a charred tree behind her. This was a welcome consolation in her loneness. She tried to mimic the swallow's song... but no sound came from her throat, as if gripped and tangled up by a heavy chain. The swallow cast a downwards glimpse, and Ciri saw that it had _her_ eyes. With a sad, disillusioned look within them, the bird sang a last, mournful tune, and flew off towards the sky - that was long engulfed by black clouds, fueled by the wildfire that by now threatened to cover the entire world in its red-black embrace.

Ciri backed away as she finally realized the scale of the catastrophe, falling over as she tripped on something. She felt her head knock against a trunk that blistered to coal; as she rubbed the spot where it hurt, she inadvertently looked up. Bodies were hanging low from the tree, the wind playing a most morbid music through holes in their chests, where the hearts would supposed to have been, rattling their ribs like so many chimes. The bodies, men and women alike, bore faces she never knew, and some that she knew all too well...

Despair descended over her. She forced herself to avert her gaze, crawled away; she looked to her sword, as if hoping to find comfort in its purity. There was none; she shied away after a glance, for her mirror image on the blade was not hers anymore - it had black eyes, like those of a bird.

 _"Like father, like daughter._ " - the reflection said.

Ciri would wake screaming.

Next thing she felt as she rose up was the heavy forged iron cuff pressing against her throat, yanking her back. She was gasping for air, raising her hands to pull that damned piece of metal off as much as she could, taking deep breaths. For a while, she couldn't process anything about her surroundings, trying her best to calm down. It was barely early morning, with the Sun's rays barely penetrating the side of the forestial shrubbery and canopy concealing them, and the landscape around her was not where she last was. Gone were the quiet, dead homesteads; she was in some makeshift little camp with a single tent, chained to a tree like some hound.

All too soon, there was a heavy rustling in the tent, and out came his alarmed captor, upjumped and sword drawn in an eyeblink, his fierce gaze darting about, his breathing rapid and anxious. When he confirmed there was no immediate danger, he walked closer to Ciri, clenching and shaking his fist angrily. - "The hell is wrong with you, you daft wench? Trying to kill me with a heart attack?!" - he complained.

For a drawn-out moment, both of them were merely drawing breath, mutually antagonistic gazes fixated on each other. The man shrugged and was about to go back to his sleeping spot, but Ciri spoke out to him: - "We are going to the Hanged Man's Tree, aren't we?"

The man halted in his step as if struck by paralysis, before turning around with a dumbfounded look on his face. - "How did you know?"

"I, uh..." - Ciri herself wasn't exactly sure herself. - "It seems like the place where someone like you would belong!" - she blurted out, folding her arms cheekily.

After a second of silence, the man let out a short chuckle. - "I suppose that's correct." - he appeared to be musing to himself. - "Had a bad sleep? I see you even kicked off the blanket I put on you."

Ciri blinked, only now realizing she has not done anything to do a quick check-up on herself. The blanket the man made mention of - some simple, overworn cotton rag - was indeed at her feet. She tapped her head, which was still dizzy after the concussions the man put him through earlier; she noticed that her forehead was wrapped in a bandage, and that her hair was not caught in the neck cuff anymore. She wiggled around a bit, noticing a strain on her side. She pulled up her shirt, noticing another bandange comforting her lower ribs on the left side. This planted an all too uncomfortable thought in her head. - "Did you..." - she muttered while raising her head, looking the man threateningly in his eyes.

The man planted his sword in the ground and rested on it, leaning forward: - "I put you asleep with a sedative, then checked whether you sustained any serious damage. One of your ribs may be cracked. Made you drink some Swallow and gave you a wrap. I want you alive, so I won't risk you dying of internal haemorrhage or the like."

Ciri slowly, steadily rose to her feet, approaching the man as much as the chain's length allowed her to. - "That is all very considerate for a heartless butcher. But my question remains. _Did you...?_ "

"Did I what?" - the man asked back, eyebrows twitching in annoyance.

"Did you have your way with me?!" - Ciri demanded to know.

The man covered his face with one of his palms, smirking audibly, before throwing his arms wildly about, raising his voice to a yell: - " **YES I DID! With two hand-carved wooden arse-plugs! And in 42 different poses! Because that's how gravely perverted I am!** " - and he crowned it all with the most ridiculously fake laughter possible, grinning with a wide smile and his eyes stretched so open they could have popped out any second.

Ciri at first wanted to throw a punch, but the man's childish antics made her reconsider it. - "So... you didn't." - she concluded with a relieved huff.

"Of course I didn't!" - her captor declared, placing his hands on his hips. - " What do you take me for? Geesh girl, you have some really messed up preconceptions in your head."

Ciri paced back a few steps, leaning her back against the tree's trunk. - "Let's just say, I have met people who would not have skipped the opportunity. So..." - she bit her lips, trying to dig up her memories of her encounter with the man, fishing for something that she could draw information out of him. She thought of how she was lacking in magic, which previously coursed through her as much like the very blood in her veins. She was guessing that if the man was a manhunter or the like, who took on magic users as well in his job, then the chains the man put on her must have contained some measure of dimeritium; but that did not explain how she became powerless when rushing at him from a distance.

She put that thought aside, as she remembered something more important to her. - "So... I recall you mentioned the White Wolf. Geralt of Rivia. That is who you want. What has he done to earn your ire?"

"A lot." - came the swift answer. - "He's the reason I'm the way I am."

"Ugly, friendless and miserable?" - Ciri posed him the question immodestly. - "Because that's why most people seem to hold a lasting grudge the way I see. You lost to him, or he killed someone you happened to care for, or he indirectly made you an outcast."

"Something like that." - the man nodded, appearently uncaring of the details he was unveiling. - "But my animostity towards him runs much deeper. I am his nemesis, you see. The culmination of every bad decision he has ever made."

Ciri gazed back skeptically. - "If that was true, you'd be a whole lot more imposing. And probably female."

Her kidnapper could barely hold his lips closed as his cheecks puffed up and reddened from the contained laughter. - "Good one." - he admitted. - "You might want to share that during your last upcoming reunion with him."

"So that is your plan." - Ciri stepped forth, confident she has everything figured out. - "You butchered innocent villagers and kidnapped me, his pupil, all just to earn his attention. You're using me, a girl you wrestled to submission, to blackmail him, lure him into a trap at Hanged Man's Tree. You are a despicable coward." - she said, and with that, she spat towards the man's face, but due to the distance, it ended up landing on his right boot instead.

"Smart. Very smart." - the man sounded up, but raised up to fingers, as if counting. - "Except for two details: first, what I did back there, that was a coverup. I was to take you alive, with no witnesses about. Hence I ran the locals out. And this leads to the second detail you are missing: you are not a bait, but a bounty target. If I just plainly wanted to deal with the famous Geralt of Rivia, I'd do that face to face. But I got a contract on you, you see. And I thought: why not tie the two things together, mix fun with profit? It's all too convenient really, as my employers have unfinished business with the White Wolf as well." - Ciri was about to question him anew, when the man waggled his fingers together. - "No, girl, you warrant no premature exposition from me. That would spoil the surprise."

Ciri sunk into her thoughts for a second; someone hired this man to catch her? That was intriguing, and carried worrysome implications. Has someone uncovered her identity? Does this headhunter even know who is she to begin with? That seemed doubtful. - "I've heard enough as is." - she ultimately exclaimed. - "All in all, you are a bounty hunter with a petty grudge, whatever that may be. I'm betting that medallion of yours is a trophy from another witcher, too. You are a worthless shitstain of a person if ever I saw one."

"You don't get to judge me. You kill a lot of things too, missy, and coins don't even seem to interest you. You have to admit, that's disturbing." - the man threw her accusations back in her face. - "After all, we both know who else did that, eh?"

"Well, that was low, even for you." - Ciri hissed, the shameful comparison with that bastard Bonhart stinging her sensitively. - "But at any rate, your plans are doomed to failure. Geralt is smart, strong, and has plenty of friends. He'll take care of whatever you have in store for him. And you, tough guy, it's clear you are getting old and frail, you need your precious naptime. I will find a way to escape. Maybe kill you when you are snoozing. Or strangulate you with this chain the next time you want to tie me up." - she put up a victorious smile, trying to appear to be in control. - "You are not going anywhere far with me unless I decide I want to go with you. Which I don't. So I'm giving you this one chance to say you are sorry, unchain me, give my swords back, and maybe - _maybe_ \- I will gratiously decide to let your bony behind intact for just doing what you were paid to do, and simply hand you over to the authorities instead."

Ciri expected the man to angrily lash out at her, try to intimidate, or even outright attack her. But that did not come to pass; the man merely laughed at her, which caused her so far built up confidence to start crumbling. - "Do you seriously think I did not consider that something might befall me underway?" - he questioned her. - "A smart man always takes precautions. You might know _where_ we are headed. But nothing else. You do not know _when_ the meeting is supposed to take place, _who_ else is invited and involved, and if we don't get there together, alive and intact, you never will. I'm betting you don't even know where we are right now, which direction to take. Because rest assured, I'm the type who walks paths less travelled. And if I don't deliver you - well, sad loss for me. But my employers will still be out for the White Wolf's head, and you will learn nothing unless I permit you to. Which I won't."

"I will figure it out! Just you wait!" - she scoffed at him, clenching her tiny fists. - "And don't you dare belittle me. I _will_ make you talk."

"Just like Whoreson Junior did with your doppler friend?" - the man asked.

Ciri fell silent.

Suddenly, anything remotely humanizing and sympathetic was gone from the man's expression. - "Surprised? Don't be. I know precisely who you are. I have studied you. Immersed myself in pursuing you, _Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon_. Heiress to the throne of Nilfgaard. Protegee of the School of the Wolf. Vanquisher of the Wild Hunt. Truly, I expected something more impressive during our first encounter. It's so sad you had to disappointed me."

"How..." - Ciri gulped. - "How did you find me?"

"Oh, pretty simple, really." - the man said. - "I just had to figure out where to start looking..."

While Geralt was busy waiting for Zoltan to arrive, Yennefer, Triss Merigold and Keira Metz were meeting in Ewald Borsodi's Auction House, under the pretense that Triss invited them to debate putting up a variety of their aged, outdated magic trinkets on the next upcoming exhibition. Triss was on good terms with Ewald - primarily because he owed his well-being to Geralt, and as such any friend of his was a welcome guest. The fact that she was a an esteemed, prestigious sorceress added all the more to the icing on the cake, and further encouraged Ewald to pull a few strings with the local authorities, claiming client protectorate on the sorceress. The city guard would not let anyone trouble her, especially not the witch hunters. Thus, Triss was able to ensure a most private meeting, arguing to Ewald that she'd be able to persuade her fellows to join in on the auction more easily that way. As additional insurance, she paid him good money and some fancy jewels as a renting price for their assembly in the auction house.

Needless to say, the fact that Triss went to such lengths to get the three of them together and on such short notice meant nothing good. Yennefer and Keira alike suspected something troublesome was afoot, so after some brief pleasantries, and Ewald excusing himself to leave the ladies to their own dealings, they got straight to the point.

"Alright, thank goodness that creep is gone. He's as tiresome as he's rich. And he's very rich, that much I see." - Keira sighed.

"Forget him. We all know this is about much more than an opportunity to dump our old dresses and contraptions upon whatever idiots visit this sort of place." - Yen brushed Keira's complaints aside as she turned to Triss. - "Triss, we can tell that you are uneasy. Indulge us. What is this all about?"

Triss nodded gently. - "You are right, I'm at the edge. How could I not be? What I have to tell you is very urgent. It involves all of us - as in, everyone who has ever been member of the Lodge. All of us could be in grave danger!"

"Oh for the love of...!" - Keira cut in. - "What in the hells did Philippa do again to condemn us?!"

"No, you misunderstand, it's not like- uhh, I don't even know where to begin..." - Triss clasped her head between her palms.

Yennefer put her hands on her shoulders, in friendly but firm manner. - "Merigold, pull yourself together. Take a deep breath and think it over."

Triss complied. A few seconds later, she regained composure, and began her tale. - "Alright. Listen carefully, both of you. About two weeks ago, give or take a few days, I was contacted by Philippa while I was in Kovir, you know, for applying for the advisory position. I was really surprised, since... oh, you two know how it was. Her and Sile's quarrel landed me in Nilfgaardian capture, torture, and now she was dallying with Emhyr? I was not going to keep up pretensions."

"And yet she contacted you still? Some nerve..." - Keira muttered.

"Anyhow" - Triss continued - "She wasn't alone. Fringilla and Margarita were also with her. They were trying to get me to give up information on Ciri's whereabouts, citing politics, future interests, all that usual caveat. I told them off, of course, saying she was dead and gone, and they are very insensitive to try and bother someone so dear lost to us."

"So you mean to tell us that they are looking for Cirilla, probably under Emhyr's orders?" - Yennefer summed it up. - "You are right, that is reason for our concern. If they somehow manage to find traces of her, it is going to implicate all of us in front of Emhyr for covering up her disappearence."

Keira nodded as well in agreement. - "Well, in hindsight of this, I can understand why you are so concerned, Merigold. But I don't think-"

"Wait, you two, wait!" - Triss held up her hands in protest. - "That is not all. That is not all. There is something much worse." - seeing the interrogative glances of her fellows, Triss walked up to one of the cloaked exhibition items, and pulled its cover off. It was her personal megascope, which she have had carried over in secret, concealed as one of the items for the auction. - "I have recorded the exchange with Philippa. But while we talked, something happened. You need to listen to this."

She fiddled around with the megascope's crystals, lenses and whatnot for a good ten minutes until she tuned in the correct settings. The device faithfully projected the captivated, fluid, illusionary images which were lifelike representations of Philippa Eilhart, Fringilla Vigo, and Margarita Laux-Antille. Triss made a quick adjustment to hasten up the recording to skip the unnecessary parts, the voices fading to squeek-like noises as she did. She observed the flow of of projections, then, when she got to the desired point, she undid the acceleration. - "Now, listen very, very carefully!" - she whispered to Yen and Keira.

Philippa's rendition spoke in her usual, gravely unimpressed voice: - "Drop the charade already, Merigold. Cirilla's death is about as believable as the Scoia'tael making lasting peace with Redenia. Theoretically possible, but highly unlikely. Yennefer ignores my summons, and Keira is dangling around with a worthless witcher too, like it's a new fashion or something! But you, Merigold, of all people should know what it feels like to be persecuted. Emhyr var Emreis is losing his mind day by day, and if we do not return Cirilla to him, gods only know what new laws he will set in places for us, magicians! That will include you, whether you like it or not, when Redenia submits to him."

Fringilla stepped forth next, talking in a honeyed tone: "Merigold, dear, be reasonable. You cannot keep this a secret forever. We have proof that there is a female witcheress stalking the north, but cannot piece the trail together. We cannot pin down her magical signatures. But you know her better than any of us. We could use your aid in this matter."

Margarita stepped in lastly, in her ever optimistic cheerfulness: "You could be a great help to all magicians, in the north and south alike, if you just returned her to Nilfgaard, and rewarded in accordance. Maybe become her personal advisor?" - she teased her with the possibilites.

"Don't get too far with that promise-" - Philippa rudely interceptred Margarita's last comment, when suddenly, the images started breaking up. - "What the...?" - Philippa's projection asked in annoyance. - "Merigold, if you are putting a dimeritium bar next to the megascope like last time, I swear...!"

Next moment, the three sorceress' images were all gone. - "What's going on?!" - Margarita asked in surprise. - "Is something wrong with this trinket? I knew I shouldn't have shopped for focus crystals at the discount store-"

Out of the blue, Philippa let out a frightened scream. - "My sight! I'm- I'm blind!"

"Philippa, that's... not exactly new." - Fringilla noted in an uncertain tone.

"Not like that, you fatuous trollop! My magic vision is gone, I'm _completely_ blind!" - Philippa yelled at her. - "Margarita, give me a hand here! Something is not right. I feel ill..."

"Hold on, Philippa." - Margarita said comfortingly. - "Now that you say..." - she paused briefly - "I feel dizzy. Did one of you leave the alchemic boiler running again?"

"Quiet!" - Fringilla said. - "Do you two... hear that? Footsteps! Someone is coming."

Philippa sounded up angrily. - "Coming down? Here?! After us laying two scores of magic traps and a dozen elementals? Impossible! You must be hallucinat-"

She fell silent, as did the other two. Yennefer and Keira sharpened their ears, keen on listening in, until they started to hear the faint sounds of a heavy pair of boots marching across some ancient, cracky stone surface - followed by a most reserved, and unnerving singing by a man:

" _For your dolly, Polly, sleep has flown; don't dare let her tremble alone..._ "

"Is that what I think it is?" - Keira raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

" _For the witcher, hearless cold, paid in coin of gold; he comes, he'll go, leave naught behind, but heartache and woe..._ "

Yennefer gulped in suspense. This song was nearly lost to time, and the last time Geralt heard it was supposedly from a higher vampire. Who is this person to recite it?

" _Deep, deep woe..._ "

The sound of steps stopped on the recording, and was followed up by Fringilla's anxious voice. - "Who... who are you? How did you get in here?!"

Mild chuckle was heard. - "Always the same questions, and never the right ones." - the man retorted evasively. - "Ladies, you are some of the most intelligent women in the world. Philippa Eilhart, Fringilla Vigo and Margarita Laux-Antille. Come on, deduce. Is it my presence that you feel?" - he fell silent for a prolonged moment, as if awaiting answers. - "Nay. What you sense is an _absence_. And that is what your defenses succumbted to as well."

"You think you can intimidate us?!" - Philippa lashed out. - "If you know who we are, then you know the extent of our power and influence. I don't know how you've sneaked and crawled your way across our defenses, but you will perish gruesomely here and... now? What now?!" - she sounded more alarmed than irate at that point. - "My magic... gone!?"

The next few minutes were spent bickering amongst the three sorceresses, complaining of their newfound vulnerability. The man put it into an apt summation: - "You are drained. Deprived of the one thing which made you ladies feel empowered, entitled and special. Well, besides your lovely bosoms, that is. As for how I found you..." - he paced about, each step a hard thump against marble. - "You'd be surprised how many people were willing to help me locate you. Sigismund Dijkstra's surviving agents in particular. They have quite a grudge against Philippa. They knew where you were hiding, but wouldn't make a move. They were too few, too weak, and not liked by the authorities. So I offered to step in instead."

"What are you going to do to us?" - Margarita asked, sounding most fearful. - "And... why do you have a flower bonnet with you?"

"Oh, this?" - the man said, amused. - "I _may_ or _may not_ have to pay my respects to someone very soon to be deceased. So I came prepared." - he explained the disgusting joke, alluding to the potential fate of his three would-be victims. - "However, there is absolutely no need for our temperaments to spiral out of control, fair ladies. You are in possession of documents which I am in need of. All of them, in fact. Every book, every scroll, every parchment, every note... wow, you have quite a lot here. If you'd be so kind, as to relinquish them - this place could use a touch-up anyhow..."

"And if we don't?" - Fringilla made a stand. - "Magic is not our only power, vermin. You aren't messing with three barmaids. You are directly challenging the interests of Nilfgaard. And we all know how far the rays of the imperial sun can reach. Lay but a single finger on any of us, or our belongings, and your family will be exterminated down to your last bastard grandchild."

"Well, what do you know, I am in great luck then to be a complete loner!" - the man mocked the gravity of the threat he was facing. - "Too bad that even if I had a family, your warnings fall short, black one. Emperor Emhyr will soon be washing his hands of you three."

"Whatever do you mean?" - Margarita questioned him.

"I _may_ or _may not_ have taken use of the Novigrad postal service to inform multiple interest groups about your whereabouts. Including the witch hunters. Once they get here, they will kill you and burn the place down. And secondly, I dispatched a letter to the imperial embassy, informing them of your gratious contribution to Redenia's own efforts to locate His Imperial Majesty's lost heiress. You are in no position to stop the delivery, or stop me from getting what I want. Now, what will good old Emreis think of you three after he catches word of your incredible blunder...? "

"You wouldn't...!" - Fringilla gulped.

"You are bluffing!" - Philippa exclaimed, although there was an audible trembling in her voice. - "There's no way you could..."

"Is that a risk you are willing to take?" - the man asked her back before she could finish her sentence - "Especially after you have already taken so many."

There was a choking silence both in the recording, and in the midst of Yen, Keira and Triss. The recording finally kept going again, with Fringilla's voice: - "Alright. Let us presume we fall for your trickery, seeing as you can, indeed, do us grave harm, and we are physically unfit against you. But we can just toss a candle over here, and you might just lose the exact papers you were looking for. What warranty do you have that we will survive this ordeal if we cooperate with you?"

"Smart, lady." - the man acknowledged. - "Very smart. But I am smart myself, and a smart man takes precautions. I cannot risk you alerting other imperial mages about my actions here, hence I had to make sure you'd be wanted personnel in the entire continent. But seeing as you can still destroy what I wish to claim, I present you with a way out. I know ways to evade the streets, lead you to the docks. There, a ship is hauling spices delivered from Zerrikania. They shall set out within the next two hours, and I happen to have purchased some tickets aboard. Do we have a deal?"

"Zerrikania?" - Margarita asked. - "Isn't that the place with flies which fornicate with your face and their larvae eat your brain?"

"One and the same, I fear." - Philippa sighed deeply. - "But it is also well outside Emhyr's cluches. Very well, mystery man. I must admit, you have us cornered and outsmarted. But I might as well go out in a fire, deny you your goal. You could simply be luring us to the outside to be killed."

"I am a man of my word, lady Eilhart. I give you all three my word: take my offer, and I promise you, no harm shall come to you from either Redenia, Nilfgaard or my humble, dastardly self. What's more, I have given my word to the captain of the ship as well, that I would be escorting two sorceresses seeking refuge, safe and sound.

"But... we're three." - Margarita pointed out.

"Is this some joke?!" - Philippa yelled out in frustration. - "You claim to be a man of your word, and already you are going back on your promise, you feckless freak!"

"I AM a man of my word." - the perpetrator insisted - "I said no harm shall come to any of you from Redenia, Nilfgaard or myself. But you see, Philippa..." - his voice lowered to a contemptuous whisper as he took a few steps closer. - "Fate had me meet someone here in Novigrad. Someone whose services I sought after. He was in a sorry state when I found him. Uncaring. Hopeless. Apathetic. But as soon as I made mention of you... - the recording on the megascope became more distorted, the man's voice deforming to downright demonic: - "...he became so vigorously eager, to meet you in person again, I could not deny him, even if I wanted to. Therefore, I made him a promise - and, as his presence testifies... I have kept it."

There were footsteps in the distance, much more gentle and lightfooted than that of the man who first came in. At some point, Yennefer and Keira took notice of twin blades being drawn from their scabbards, and sounds of steel sliding on steel as the wielder sharpened the edges against one another. He spoke with an unemphatic voice that carried no good intentions: - "It has been a while, _dh'oine witch_."

"That voice... _you!_ " - Philippa muttered, and for the first time in their lives, Yen and Keira heard nothing but absolute terror in her tone. - "NO! No, no, no, no, no, _nonono_..."

Her whimpering and crying were drowned out by the first man's overly satisfied, triumphant statement: - "Now, I think we have everything worked out! Lady Fringilla, Margarita, here are your tickets. Please follow me. You need not witness this." - and with that said, three pairs of foot swiftly began marching off-scene.

"NO!" - Philippa shouted one last time. - "Fringilla, don't leave me! Margarita...! Someone, anyone! What have I done to deserve _thihihihis..._ " - no more articulation came from her mouth anymore; only helpless sobbing.

All that followed after were knife stabs, stomach-turning splurting sounds, Philippa's agonized screams, and her murderer's all too joyful, vengeful cries: - "For the Scoia'tael! For Upper Aedirn! **For Saskia!** "

Then, little by little, the megascope's projection started working again. The imagery was hazy, but it gradually clearing, revealing an elf with a read headscarf, and Philippa disfigured into a gore-leaking dead wreck, as the elf kept plummeting his knives into her even after she ran out of breath. He turned his single eye's gaze towards the megascope. - "This damn thing is still on?!" - and he resolved the issue by reaching for a focus crystal, and ripping it out.

That was the last of it.

Triss stood petrified, tears swelling in her eyes, her lips shut close. Keira was covering her mouth, trying not to throw up. Yennefer was in shock herself, before enforcing herself to stay in control, and hugged Triss tightly. - "Alright, Triss. It's alright. Now all is clear. We have a lot to discuss."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Witcher: A Deep Mark**

 **Chapter 4.**

Ciri was dragged along in her kidnapper's wake, her hands bound and wrapped together by the long chain starting from the cuff on her neck, and ending in the brutal man's left hand a few meters ahead of her. Both of them walking with a steady rate; he wasn't in a hurry, and was mindful not to accidentally outpace her and strain her by accident. Ciri followed, not showing any sign of resistance; she was unslept, and deep in thought. She was certain that she could get rid of the man if she truly wanted to... but his earlier presentation inspired legitimate fear within her - not for herself, but for Geralt. Whoever were the murderous bounty hunter's contractors must have been powerful people. Was he hired by some northern resistance movement which tracked her somehow, and want her as a bargaining chip? Or did his father, Emhyr var Emreis, send him to apprehend her? Maybe some other imperial nobles, hoping to gain leverage over their emperor by taking his sole child captive?

There were all too many variations. And the location where they were headed for, the Hanged Man's Tree in Velen? Last thing she heard about the area, the Redenians and Nilfgaard both pulled their troops out, and since the peace talks have been going on, the region was getting infested by all manner of strange, horrible creatures, feasting on the carcass of the province that once belonged to the conquered kingdom of Temeria. Who could his co-conspirators be to choose a land so desolate and hazardous as their rallying ground?

Even if she were to break off, where would she be headed? All around her, there was unknown ground. The towering trees hung their branches overhead like so many walls closing in on her, and the shades they cast and shook in the wind whispered like an echo of the dark thoughts within her. She forced the increasingly complex and complicated theories out of her mind; for the moment, she would work along with the man, perhaps leak him for more revelations. - "Say..." - she said meekly. - "About my doppler friend. How did you get to him? Have you done something to him?"

"Hm?" - the man cast a grim look behind, before turning back and kept striding onwards. - "I haven't hurt him, if that's what you are worried about." - he then cussed under his breath for a spell, as he stepped into some mud puddle and shook the filth off. - "As for how I found out about him, simple, really. I said I was after you. I found some records of your... _affairs_ with Whoreson Junior. They didn't exactly implicate you two parted on good terms. Then all of sudden, Whoreson has a change of heart, and his men were gossiping of your occasional visits? Sure, why not, that's not suspicious in the least." - his tone was loaded with heavy sarcasm by the end of it. - "So I pulled some of his men apart and walked in on him whilst counting orens. He tried to act tough, but didn't last with a blade at his throat. Told him to drop the act and cough up what I wanted to hear. I was surprised to find out he was an actual doppelganger, but whatever. Got what I needed and moved on."

"You know, I have more acquaintances in Novigrad than just him." - Ciri kept talking - "If what you say is true, and you spared him, why would he not tell of your break-in to the rest of my friends and try to warn me?"

"If you know Dudu as I came to know him, then you know that doppler is a base coward. I could have exposed him, and I have friends in Novigrad, too. I promised him they would slip an anonymous note to the witch hunters regarding his identity if he so much as considered saying a word to anyone about my visit." - the man elaborated. - "No need for threats and torture when _promises_ suffice."

Ciri sighed in annoyance. - "Well, I suppose I should thank you for sparing him. But you are still a bloody-handed murderer. Having a code of conduct doesn't make you better than any thug with the merest shred of conscience about them."

"There are worse people I could be." - the man shrugged his shoulders as he took his steps. - "Like Vilgefortz."

Ciri shivered at the mere mention of the name. - "Point taken." - she admitted; but hearing that name also caused a new theory to emerge in her head: that someone like that sickening madman of a magician would want her, like he did, for her elder blood. - "About your employers, I know you won't talk, but tell me... are there any mages among them?"

Her captor turned about, measuring her up, seeing the impact of invoking Vilgefortz's name before him; Ciri was maintaining composure as much as she could, but her legs quivered, like she was expecting to be put on a table for vivsection once this man hands her over. The man defiantly shook his head. - "No." - he put it plainly - "I don't work for bloody mages."

"Oh. I see. Good." - Ciri nodded a bit with each word. If she was merely wanted as a political prisoner, that in itself was a relief. - "Speaking of magic, if you know who I am, you know I'm a Source. Now, ever since we met, I'm experiencing... difficulties, I could say. You have anything to do with that?"

The man chuckled silently. - "Come on, girl, deduce. You'll figure it out eventually. But until then, shut your mouth and keep walking. I have a travel distance quota to meet if I am to deliver you on time."

He was about to return to treading his path amidst the high grass when suddenly, Ciri pulled the chain back. Looking back with a fearsome glimpse, the man gave her a wordless warning. She wasn't put off by him, standing her ground with an idea hatching in her head: - "I'm not taking any more steps while this damn weight is on me." - she stated. - "It's going to wear me down, and it will cost you precious time."

"You think me a fool?" - the man asked, putting a clenched fist on his hip.

"Verily, but that is irrelevant." - Ciri said. - "Sincerely, the more you talk of your employers, the more I am intrigued. You told me it is in my interest to be collaborative. Well, you shall have it. I will go with you to Hanged Man's Tree - but it will be under my terms. So, I ask you again: remove this cuff, and hand me back my belongings. The route ahead can be perilous, and whilst you caught me by surprise, I doubt you could fight off a stray ghoul or the like."

The man leaned closer, with his mouth curving upwards as a grotesque smile, but the irate look in his eyes was otherwise unrelenting. - "Your concern is... _appreciated_. And your reasoning is sound. We will be treading upon dangerous grounds, little swallow, that much is true. But it is my choice when and where I will decide to trust you. So, I offer you a deal."

Ciri tipped her head slightly upwards to appear a bit taller. - "Go on."

"If we keep up the pace, we will reach a river by today. I got a boat waiting for us. Once we are going downstream, there will be no turning back for either of us." - the man kept some pause. - "Until we get there, the chain stays on you. After that, I'll take it off, and you get your swords back. But I'll be keeping my eye on you, of that, make no mistake."

The girl rolled her eyes and sighed. - "So be it. Might as well. Lead the way, then-"

The man would waggle his index finger in front of her. - "I said I offer a deal. I made you a promise, and I'm a man of my word. But I'm expecting something in turn."

"Namely?" - Ciri asked.

"Once we are in the boat, I will ask you a question. _Any_ question I choose. Answer that faithfully, and I shall not put the chains back again." - the man stated.

"That's it?" - Ciri chuckled at the ridiculousness of his demand; she could easily lie to him should he ask something sensitive, like about Geralt's weaknesses and fighting style. Or her personal sexual preferences. - "Fine. We have an agreement... what was your name again?" - she realized only now that so far, the man has not revealed anything alluding to his identity.

Her captor straightened out his back, head tilted up, gazing down on her. His voice was whisper, but it resonated with boastfulness: - "You may call me _Mangler_."

It was already late in the afternoon by the time they encountered an unscrupulous looking man with a cudgel while strolling near an aged oak marked with a large lily symbol. His trousers tattered and his upper body barely covered by some torn piece of cloth. It seemed he was expecting Mangler, for he invited him to follow after with a gesture. Ciri kept silent, now thinking herself foolish in hindsight as to why she had not insisted on being unchained earlier. She was under the impression that Mangler was the lone wolf kind of huntsman. But if he has allies, freeing herself will be quite an issue should it come to that. Sure, he has promised to take the chains off, and so far maintained a professional impression - apart from the rampage in the village, that is; but that was no reason to trust him any further than he could be thrown. Which, considering the size difference between him and her, would not be too much by default.

Still, he seemed insitent to keep her healthy, and she had no reason to doubt his employers, if driven by hereditary interests in regards to Nilfgaard, will want her alive _and_ unspoilt. For the time being, she tried her best to look unfazed and kept moving. The man led her and Mangler to a small encampment concealed in the forest, close enough to the riverside that Ciri could distinctly hear the flow of the water's roaming mass in its wide bed. The site was a typical, if small, bandit haven - patchwork shelters crudely crafted from wood and animal skins, barrels and boxes of supplies piled together under a hastily tinkered roofing, chopped down tree trunks converted into makeshift sitting places and tables, and a few aged benches and plain sleeping spots arranged in a roughly circular shape around two fireplaces.

The inhabitants were about eleven people in total, their escort included, with a few of them wearing gambesons with mail hauberks over them, giving them a more regulated, if shabby guise. The rest were not that well off, clad in little more than the overworn linen and wool rags which characterized much of the north's peasantry and outlaws. Looking about, Ciri could spot marks of the Temerian lily; were they resistance fighters or somesuch?

Before she could spin the thread of that thought any further, the leader stepped forth. Much to her surprise, it was a woman, maybe in her thirties, in a heraldic brigandine, hunting spear in hand. Her crest composed of a screeching rooster with an arrow piercing and twisting its thoat while dancing atop a hill in between two pine trees. Ciri could not recognize it; the lady could have been a gentry, a small land owner. Her dark brown hair was cut short, with only three braids left longer, tied together into a singular larger one, reaching just below her neckline. Her build and and wound marks suggested a militant background. By her side, a dwarf with an impressive beard and balding head came along sluggishly shambling, walking with a slight hunch, but even so he was tall for someone of his kind. His bare arms and chest were massive and muscular as well like some renowned city brawler's, and covered by scars and tattoos alike, his hands wrapped in bandages and wearing a necklace made of some torn chain refashioned into a stylish, if thuggish accessory.

The woman spoke up first. - "Ah, Mangler! Punctual as usual." - her mezzo-soprano was caressing to the ears. - "Successful in your hunt?"

"As you can see." - Mangler answered shortly, tilting his head towards Ciri, who still kept her mouth closed, looking about and measuring the surroundings. - "Now, let me through, time is of the essence for me. I'm giving the other half of the rent fee to your men once we reach our destination, like we agreed." - he wanted to simply walk past, when the dwarf confronted him, arms folded.

"Change of plans, bungler." - he spat out. - "You said you were after a mutant freak. This girl doesn't look the sort to me. And you know we don't take kindly to being lied to."

"I said I was after a witcher. She is one. Got the tools of the trade to show for it, at least." - Mangler stated.

"He is telling the truth, you know." - Ciri added. - "I was finishing a hunt for Nekkers when he got me. Didn't get any coins for all that hassle!"

The woman chuckled at the notion. - "A girl so young, a witcher? A tall story from the both of you. No cat eyes, no deformities... but all cleanly dressed, with pretty, bejewelled ornaments. You know what I think, Mangler? I think this petty maid you are retrieving is in fact some runaway lass from a noble's home, trying to live out youthful delusional fantasies."

Mangler cast a meaningful glimpse towards Ciri before looking back to his talk partner. - "In all honesty, you are not exactly wrong."

"I beg your pardon?!" - Ciri protested.

"Still," - Mangler ignored her complaint - "I fail to see how this would change anything. I need one of your boats and paid for it in advance. We had a deal."

"And, had you kept your word of a witcher being your target, I would have obliged." - the woman said. - "I resent the freaks. Greedy, child snatching, depraved scum, all of them. But a defeseless little girl? I'm a mother myself, you know. I don't think anyone would want a arsehead like you getting their hands on their daughters." - Ciri couldn't help but smile. It seemed common decency was not unheard of even in this remote, lawless place. The lady circled her with a kindly gaze. - "What do you say, young one? Shall we take you in, away from this unrefined man? You'd have a good time with my girls." - she gestured towards two young maids who were looking to be around Ciri's age, sitting by the campfire in the back, one sharpening a sword, the other arming a hunting crossbow. - "They like swinging sharp, pointy things as well. And my men-folk would _love_ to have you around, too."

On that last note, all too sudden, Ciri was growing much less fond of the generous proposition. - "Erm... thank you kindly, madam, but Mangler isn't so bad. He's just doing his job, I'm not keepin a grudge. So, will you let us through?"

The dwarf let out a bellowing laughter. - "A damn modest lass, she is! Good. These Temerian wimps could use someone tender in their bunks for a change. No offense to your girls, lady Ortella."

"None taken, my fuzzy muscle bear." - she said, fondling the dwarf's head endearingly. - "We raise them tough, like they should be. Unlike that gimp of a husband I had. Thank gods the Nilgaardians killed him, would have done it myself if I had to put up with him any longer."

"You heard the girl, she's not interested." - Mangler intercepted. - "Boat. Now."

"We are altering the deal." - Orella stated. - "You are paying the other half up here and now, and wait until my men are done ploughing her." - she put it nonchalantly plain.

" _What!?_ " - Ciri yelped in disbelief. - "Seriously, what kind of a madwoman are you to throw a girl before your thugs to be raped!"

"These 'thugs' are my loyal retainers. What kind of lady would I be to not gift them with sweet little presents every now and then?" - she exclaimed.

The bandits were starting to encircle them, smiles wide in anticipation. Mangler drew his weapon in under a second, and up so close with no shadows falling over, Ciri could witness its details: it was a longsword, with the two lower thirds of the blade length serrated, the crossguard's ends pointing slightly upwards like little steel skewers, and the pommel at the handle's bottom end shaped not entirely unlike a small flanged mace. A butcher's choice of instument indeed. Seeing it on display, the marauders backed off a little, but one of the daughters, as well as two men, pointed crossbows at Mangler. - "I am to deliver her undamaged and unstained." - he stated. - "You guarantee neither."

"Quaking in your boots, aren't ya, whoreson?" - the dwarf spat on the ground, pummeling his chest, working himself up. Ortella gestured him to stand down.

"Let's not blow this out of proportion." - she said calmly. - "We'll be gentle with her I assure you." - she approached Mangler, unafraid of his blade pointed in her direction. - "Be wise, Mangler. You can probably take a few of us, and I don't want bloodshed. But if this spirals out of control, you cannot defeat all of us, and will perish here. You wouldn't risk that, would you?"

Mangler weighted his options. Ciri clenched her fists; if anyone so much as touches her...! For a drawn-out moment, all that could be heard was the chirping of random birds, and an owl's hooing. In the end, Mangler slowly lowered his sword. - "Very well. You can have her for the night. I'll even throw her swords in as an extra price if that means we'll forget this little misunderstanding." - he added, pointing to the two witcher blades he carried swung over shoulder so far.

"Why, you graying piece of forktail shit!" - Ciri yelled at him, trying to pull away from him, the chains and cuff bruising her in the attempt; Mangler put his foot down firmly, without averting his gaze from Ortel and her companions.

"HOWEVER!" - Mangler raised his voice - "I have a condition. _One_ condition."

"We won't get her pregnant." - Ortalla assured him. - " _That_ part of her body won't be sore in the morning, I'll supervise that."

"Not that. I'm a man of my word, if you recall." - he turned his gaze to Ciri, eyebrows lifting and falling suggestively. - "And there is a _promise_ that I have made to the girl that I must fulfill first."

Ciri ceased struggling after she heard that. She got the message.

"By all means." - Ortella shrugged. - "Just be quick, the mood is fleeting and the boys are horny."

Mangler cast one last inquisitive look at Ciri, who plainly nodded once. He unchained her, and as soon as he had done that, Ciri reached for her steel sword over Mangler's shoulder and drew it in an eyeblink, spinning to his side in a defensive stance. Mangler turned about alongside her, longsword held ready to swing.

"You cheeky bastard!" - one of the bandits shouted. - "You said-"

"I said you can have her and her swords both." - Mangler reminded them - "On _one_ condition. Here it is: come and take them!"

Ortella sighed. - And here I thought we could settle this in a civilized manner. Kill him."

Three crossbow bolts came flying, one after another; Ciri effortlessly parried the first, the second flew by harmlessly, and the third got lodged in Mangler's heavy leather coat. He grunted, grinding his teeth, before the two of them simultaneously entered the fray. Ciri danced around, her body remembering the basics she was once taught in Kaer Morhen. She managed to land a few cuts and using her small frame, easily slipped in and out of the midst of her attackers; but she was at a disadvantage. For too long, she relied on her magic, her rapid teleportation to muster motion force behind her blows. Now all she had was muscle power, which, albeit decent for her lean built, was not her strongest asset. Were it not for the razor sharpness of her weapon and the bareness of his foes, it was questionable if she could land a decent strike. Mangler on the other hand faced no such issues. He fought very much like a beast, the prongs of his longsword splattering blood and bloody chuncks with each swing, complimented by boots and knees to stomachs and ribs, and his spiked knuckes pulping meat underneath skin.

Ciri was getting cornered, having too little space for pirouettes. She managed to fell two men already, and wound two more by mutilating their arm and leg, respectively, when she had her legs pulled out from under her by a spear's shaft.; Ciri raised her sword for a thrusting move, only to see it was Ortella leaning over. She awkwardly slowed her attack, barely piercing her armor. - "Hesitant, are we?" - she questioned her, right before one of his men threw himself at Ciri to wrestle her down. Swiftly, her doubts were gone, and came back to the reality that she was fighting for her life and dignity. She bit the man's nose, and while she could not slide the sword under him, she could hit him in the face with the crossguard, which she did. Bone cracked, and she pushed the guy off; she saw a spear's tip coming down, and rolled out, kneeling up, swinging and parrying as she did.

Seeing the prowess of the two, a couple of the younger thugs, the ones with the crossbows that is, decided that this was not worth the risk. They ran off to the woods, not looking back. - "Cowards!" - the dwarf shouted at them angrily. - "Never send a man to do a dwarf's job."

As if to prove his point, he tackled Mangler by himself whilst the bounty hunter was between ripping open someone's abdomen with a slash and backhanding another's jaw to break off. He rammed him, pushed him down; Mangler dropped his sword due to his loosening grip as his lungs got the air punched out of them in a single move. The dwarf pulled him closer by one leg and was preparing to pressurize his manhood into paste with his hammer-like fist. Mangler would not permit that; recovering, he sat up, grabbed the dwarf's beard, and with a heavy pull, he headbutted him. He felt it more than the dwarf, that was for sure; cursing in his mother tongue, the brawler grabbed his head and returned the favour. Mangler was seeing stars for a second as his back hit the ground. Looking to his right, his sword was right beside him. Tossing some dirt into the dwarf's face, with a side helping of a swift distancing kick, he reached for it. He got hold of the weapon, only to feel the dwarf held down both his ankles and started twisting them, his fingers gripping with the force of a blacksmith's tongs. Mangler yelled in pain, but that only fuelled his anger - which he channeled into power. Namely, he shifted hold on the weapon, grabbind the blade, and landing the mace-like pommel upon the bald spot of his assailant, caving his brain in.

"Coalbeard!" - Ortella cried out as she witnessed it, leaving Ciri behind. This came as a relief, but only briefly; Ortella's two daughters came, one flashing an arming sword, the other launching her crossbow. Ciri barely spun out of this shot's way, and already the older, ponytailed girl with the broad blade came at her with heavy, hammering strikes. She could imbalance her should she be careless; Ciri would not even try deflection, but rather, evasion. The other girl, who had freckles and a simple knot, tossed the crossbow aside and drew a flaying knife instead, getting to Ciri's back, ready to stab. Ciri was unable to manoeuvre in time, but as she would have struck, suddenly she got an arrow to her head from behind. - "Sister!" - the elder one yelled out; Ciri used the opportunity kick a leg out from under her, then gave her a quick smack to the forehead before running for cover, having subdued her.

Mangler barely shove the dwarf's heavy corpse away and got back on foot when Ortella unleased a flurry of jabs in his direction, hitting a leg, a shoulder, and his ribs. In the latter two cases, Mangler's vest soaked up most of the damage, but he still had to get back in the flow quick. With a series of consecutive, forceful parries, he ultimately broke apart Ortella's spear, who then drew a long long dagger at him. - "Die, bastard, die!" - she yelled in his face, managing to to push his sword arm aside and going in for an impalement. Mangler used his long leg to kick her underbelly, halting the attack, then grasped her wrist with his free hand. Mangler didn't push his sword through her, as someone more sensible would had done; instead, he headbutted her, hit her in between the thights with his knee, pushed her away, and with a wide overhead swing, he cleaved across from her left collarbone, rupturing down to her fifth right rib. He pulled out the sword, letting the contents of the woman's earthly husk spill open for all to see.

Ciri beheld the gruesome spectacle with disgust, and felt her stomach turn. Those terrifying wounds on the villagers earlier... no wonder he's called Mangler. She was right to have her silver sword drawn when she first met him. That idea would have to wait, however; that arrow from earlier, which conviniently saved her, had to come from somewhere. - "Take cover, idiot!" - she told him. - "There's an archer about!"

Mangler looked at her, splattered in blood, his breath heavy, and his gaze uninterested. - "Of course there is. I made sure he'd be here."

Ciri blinked. He had someone else waiting in ambush? Soon enough, her suspicion was confirmed; an elf came out from the embrace of the shades, pulling one of the stragglers after him by the leg with one hand, an arrow poking out of the unfortunate guy's shin. He wore a red headscarf, concealing one eye, bow in his free hand, saber at his side. Mangler smiled faintly. - "Ah. My favourite knife-ear!"

"Ah. My least hated _dh'oine_." - the elf retorted in a mocking tone, letting go of his whimpering prey.

Ciri's glimpse jumped between the two several times. - "Are the two of you in a relationship?" - the menacing looks she got as her answer were explicit enough. - "No? Huh. I was just asking."

The elf got his bow ready to finish off the last bandit and the elder sister, but Mangler raised his hand in protest. - "No. The girl and I need some clean clothes. They look to be about our size."

"By Melitele, you kill every one of us, and will loot us too?" - the survivor complained. - "What more do you want!?"

"Relax, you may keep your knickers." - Mangler told him.

After a brief time, Ciri, albeit hesitantly, hauled off and undressed the elder sister, and came back in her outfit. Mangler was also done clearing himself up, his unfortunate victim shivering in his underwear while the elf kept pointing an arrow at him, bowstring fully drawn. Mangler patched up his leg wound, put his protective leathers back on, and unplucked the crossbow bolt from the jacket before taking it up. Looking to Ciri and the eld, he nodded; they were ready to set out. The elf gestured Ciri to follow. Mangler went after them, before briefly turning back.

"Ortella's elder daughter is still alive in there." - he told the fearful man, tilting his head towards the bushes where Ciri changed clothes. - "She's going to need a lot of comforting when she wakes up. Be there for her, and remind her of the lesson of this tragedy." - he unknotted a pouch on his belt, tossing it to his side; coins came out, spilling. - "Deals should be honored." - and with that said, he walked off, leaving two lonely, desperate young outlaws in the cold, bitter night.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Witcher: A Deep Mark**

 **Chapter 5.**

Ciri, Mangler and the elf got into a nice, large boat; it could have supported up to six people, but there was no need for that. Mangler handed out the oars, and sat in the back to watch for the directions ahead. Ciri sat in the middle, before him, and the elf occupied the other end, laying his bow and a few arrows beside himself in case trouble would stir. The Sun was sinking lower and lower on the horizon; they kept rowing at a steady pace, downstream along the gently rolling waves, with Mangler dictating shifts, leaving the shoreline behind and closing in on the opposite side of the riverbed slowly, gradually.

Ciri wasn't too outspoken. And the elf's sudden appearence raised plenty of questions - few of which would be answered, she wagered. No wonder Mangler agreed to unchain here then and there; he was counting on this archer to be there when he needed, so she couldn't just slip away from this point on. That elf looked battle-seasoned, and his behaviour was not unlike that of a Scoia'tael fighter. And yet, he appearently not merely agreed to meet up with Mangler, but was acting wholly cooperative. Why would an armed, independent elf - or just about _any_ elf - agree to be subservient to a human? Has Mangler let him in on his plans, or merely bribed him for a mercenary job to help escort her? They seemed to know one another, for whatever that was worth.

As they rowed the boat about, she could make out a few tall, walled-off buildings in the far-off distance, barely at the edge of her sight. - "Oh... I know where we are!" - she muttered. - "That's Oxenfurt's southern district in the distance, isn't it?"

"Yes it is." - Mangler admitted. - "Good observation. But we have no business there. We won't rest until we reach our destination. Further down south, we'll reach the river delta. There, we'll turn westwards, and land near an abandoned ferrying station shortly after."

"Do you always let your victims in on your plans, dh'oine?" - the elf questioned him, none too fond of how talkative Mangler was.

"Only when they are foolish enough to place their trust in me." - he answered.

"Oh, rest assured, I do not trust either of you. As much as I appreciate you killing those wannabe rapists, you are still kidnappers for hire." - Ciri lectured them cynically. - "I'm just saving your decapitation for when you and your cohorts will all be neatly standing next to one another."

"Your subtlelty is as astounding as your overconfidence." - the elf remarked with a great load of sarcasm. - "Then again, what should I expect from a mongrel of elder blood? The mere concept of your being is sickening, let alone the fact that our ancients' heritage is stuffed inside a dh'oine's body."

Ciri let out a bemused chuckle. - "Is someone here jealous, or is it just me?"

"Mind your tone, your majesty." - Mangler told her. - "Whom you adress is no ordinary elf. Does the name 'Iorveth' sound familiar to you?"

Ciri stopped rowing for a few seconds, gazing behind herself awkwardly. The elf put a vicious, closed-mouthed smile on display. She has heard of him, alright - if from nobody else, then Geralt and Vernon Roche. Leader of some of the most cunning and bloodthirsty bands of scoia'tael, slayer of multiple special force commanders in the north, aide to the Kingslayer, Letho of Gulet. Ciri bit her lip, before speaking out again: - "I thought... no, not just me, almost everyone thought you died a while ago."

"Died? No." - Iorveth said. - "Wasted away as a nameless refugee in Novigrad for over a year and a half, eventually winding up amongst theatre performers? Yes."

"He was playing himself in a re-enaction of Upper Aedirn's dramatic fall. I happened to have bought a ticket, because it seemed an intriguing play." - Mangler added. - "He pulled it off very believably. A bit _too_ believably. Hence how I found him."

Ciri grimaced at the unlikelyness of the claim. - "You expect me to believe this? Someone playing himself on-stage in the most well-patrolled and densely populated free city in the entire north, and nobody notices? Permit me to be just a _bit_ skeptical."

"Precisely! Just think of the sheer audacity of it! Who would presume someone so infamous would play a lead role about himself out in the open?" - Mangler grinned. - "It's not like he was the first to do something like that. You might want to ask Geralt about it."

"So why are the two of you working together, anyway?" - Ciri shifted to a more relevant matter.

"We made a deal." - Iorveth said. - "While in Novigrad, I had plenty of time to think over the things I did, as well as what others did to me. I fought this war of mine for years, decades, _centuries_. You do not truly know despair until you are a scoia'tael. But did it make the north any better for my species? No." - he paused briefly, lowering his face, not looking Ciri in the eyes. - "Then I met someone who had a dream. A dream I wanted to share in, even if I lacked the courage to speak it aloud. But she... she is lost to me now."

Ciri glimpsed at Mangler, who kept silent. She saw something resembling sympathy in his usually cold eyes, before turning to Iorveth again. - "For what it is worth, you have my condolences."

"Keep your pity." - Iorveth raised his gaze up to meet hers. - "I had more than my fair share of that in Novigrad. I wanted more than that, and that damn play only reminded me of it. When Mangler approached me off-stage and uncovered me, I drew a knife first. But when he explained himself, he made an offer which I could have refused. But didn't want to. A chance for revenge..." - he said, and there was some sadistic glitter in his eyes. - "Finally, I got to slaughter that white owl witch."

"White owl witch?" - Ciri asked back, only to realize a second later what he meant. - "Philippa!"

"She was on your trail, you know." - Mangler leaned closer, prompting Ciri to face him. - "She was dangerously close to pinpoint your movements, if her excessive notes are any indication. Had she succeeded, your kindly father would have apprehended that witcher and his sorceress friend for lying to him about your demise, and extort you to obey him lest they face execution. You should be grateful that we saved you from _that_ ordeal."

Ciri stared blankly at her feet, wordless. Nothing about these two men's motives made sense anymore. - "So instead, I'm merely stuck with a couple of serial killers with an unclear agenda who are planning my foster father's death anyhow." - she sighed. - "Marvelous."

"No need to thank us." - Mangler said cheekily. - "But sincerely, for someone who is hiding from the world's largest empire and its extensive system of spies, informers and scrying mages, you are woefully inept at staying undercover." - he pointed at her with both index fingers extended. - "I'm not sure you noticed, but you are the only ashen-haired female in the entire north who claims to be a witcher, doesn't wear any worthwhile armor while doing it, and fights by, to quoting a peasant I met: 'jumping about like fanged lightning'. You cannot gain acknowledgement for your work without building up a reputation as a side effect, girl. Seriously, how long did you expect this whole charade to last?"

Ciri opened her mouth, but was unable to come up with anything witty as a comback, so she momentarily settled for a mere "Screw you." If she's going to make it through this adventure alive and all, she's going to have to seriously revise her work methodology. For now, she attempted to shift the topic. - "Aren't you going to ask me that question of yours?"

Mangler raised an eyebrow in curiosity. - "I thought you've already forgotten about it. Glad you didn't. But I prefer if you answered it in private, and after you grabbed some sleep. This was a long day."

She had to agree with him in that regard. They each fell silent, rowing onwards, the wind and currents lending their support to their yet unknown cause, hastening their journey. At some point, Mangler started silently singing that aged, uncomfortable lullaby of his, befitting the time of day as the Sun finally vanished and the Moon took dominion on the sky: - " _Birds are silent for the night, cows turned in as daylight dies..._ "

"Cut it out." - Ciri interrupted - "I hate that song. It's sickening and wrong on so many degrees." - she explained.

"Insofar my experience with witchers is concerned, I think it's fairly accurate." - Iorveth stated. - "I'd sing myself, but my favourite songs involve the massacre of your kind."

"I don't understand elvish, anyhow." - Mangler shrugged. - "Alright, let's try something different. _What will we do with the drunken sailo-_ "

"No." - Ciri told him off. - "I got a better one." - she took a deep breath from the salty air, raising her voice ever so mildly, like a birdsong: - " _Row, row, row your boat, gently down the-_ "

"Absolutely not!" - Iorveth and Mangler exclaimed together.

Ciri sighed in vexation. - "Ugh. I hope we'll reach that ferry spot soon..."

...

Yennefer's meeting with Keira and Triss was prolonged for hours, but was ultimately inconclusive. They came up with dozens upon dozens of theories as to who the mystery man who outsmarted Philippa and her investigation partners could be. Without any visual display, deducing his identity was a hopeless proposition. The elf who walked in the scene secondly posed no such challenge, thanks to Philippa's megascope miraculously fixing up itself at the last moment; he was Iorveth, a scoia'tael marauder, wanted dead or alive in pretty much the entire north for suspected involvement with the Kingslayer murders, and atrocities against humankind in general. If the mysterious first intruder is in league with such a person, maybe he was an elf himself? It was a possibility. But then why would he resort to using a public service, such as post delivery? A city elf would be unlikely to work with a scoia'tael, for fear of retribution by human authorities. And it certainly didn't sound like he was an underling, but the mastermind. Yet someone like Iorveth wouldn't just agree to work for a human easily... would he?

Another matter of debate was the mysterious stranger's ability to seemingly nullify magic. Triss had listened to the megascope recording time and again before meeting with Yen and Keira, to the point that she could remember Philippa being consequetively stabbed 37 times in total, in the faint hope of uncovering some clue as to the man's methods. Smoke bombs with dimeritium powder mixed in? Some extremely complex dispelling magic she hasn't heard of? There was no hint of such things in the recorded dialogue. In fact, there was nothing to work with at all.

Upon deeper inspection, the man didn't seem to be after the Lodge in particular, though; provided that he was as forthright as he presented himself, he was specifically looking for information, and had no quarrel with Fringilla and Margarita - just wanted them out of the picture for good, without having to kill them. This only added to the confusion of the whole case.

Only one thing was certain: if the man wanted Philippa's and the others' notes, as he claimed, he had something big planned. And if Philippa was tracking Ciri, the man would find out about it. Such a discovery meant nothing good - not for Ciri, not for anyone else.

They managed to calm Triss down a bit, and briefly discussed about a few gaudy baubles that they were willing to part with to lend to Ewald Borsodi's auction. When Triss informed him, he was quite openly jolly that he managed to coerce three of the north's most renowned sorceresses into participating in his humble establishment's activities, blissfully unaware - or unmindful - that none of them could care less.

Yennefer didn't walk, but rather, teleported back to the room she and Geralt rented at the inn, taking a deep breath to immediately start explaining herself... but she had to realize there was nobody left inside to enlighten. - "Geralt?" - she asked out loudly, hoping for a response. There was none, so she had to conclude Geralt wasn't home. She walked around, looking for clues. - "Alright, witcher." - she muttered to herself - "If you can play investigator, so can I. I _will_ find you."

Stains on the floor from muddy boots and wine droplets, empty bottles, chairs not left at the table as they were supposed to be, the stench of alcohol lingering in the air... "Ugh. Typical all-male party leftovers." - she cringed. Zoltan came by, of that she was certain. She looked to the table, seeing a few cards of gwent scattered about, along with a short notification. Geralt's horrendous letters were easy enough to recognize.

"Went out with Zoltan and Lambert... took contract... and they left gwent cards out in the open?" - she put a hand on her hip, pouting in incredulity. That last detail was the most suspicious of all. Geralt never let her fiddle around with his cards, always hiding them away like a kid would with his most precious toys, fearing that _someone_ would want to ruin or take them away from him. It didn't really matter to her all that much - it was just a dumb card game. But now, this carelessness implied Geralt left in haste. This is not even getting into the fact that the odds of Geralt and Lambert tackling a contract together, like good brethren putting aside their competitive streak, was simply unlikely at best, and laughably absurd at worst.

She looked at the cards, more out of curiosity than to find out anything of importance. The carefully hand-pained little pictures were quite lively and, admittedly, artistic, with small numbers and symbols on their sides, probably related to game rules. She tilted her head in meager amusement; what was about this game that Geralt was so ashamed of in front of her?

Then she discovered that not all of the cards were depicting monsters, soldiers or the like. Matter of fact, a disproportionate number of the stonger cards were starring renowned women. Including Triss, and of other ladies from the Lodge, plenty of whom Geralt slept with in the past.

"Why you...!" - Yen flustered, crumpling the cards and throwing them away, sighing in annoyance. She shook her head a bit, clearing it out; the matters at hand were deadly serious. After a bit of pondering, she decided she would teleport to the municipal office next, to see whether Geralt or Lambert have indeed taken contracts or not.

Unbeknonwst to her, they were already far away.

...

Geralt and Lambert were busy riding miles away from Oxenfurt, well ahead of Zoltan, who followed after them once he somehow managed to rally together two wagons' worth of mean, hard-handed dwarves, ready to pick a bone with whoever was dastardly enough to have laid their filthy hands on Cirilla. Some, he has hired from the money he was given by Dandelion, that 20% discount deal on the storehouse be damned; others were acquaintances who owed him a favour or two, and this seemed like the best of any and all opportunities to call in on those. Their transports were rolling steadily, pulled by great workhorses accustomed to ploughs and massive haycarts. Pebbles were crackling and crunching under the heavy, ironed wheels, as twenty or so swarthy, stocky bearded men were polishing maces and combat picks, and sharpening axes, swords, boltheads and speartips with great vigour, singing of the faces they were going to smash in to save a fair young maiden.

"Spirited, aren't they?" - Lambert noted, glimpsing behind him. - "I think whoever sent that message is going to be running for the hills when he sees Zoltan's bunch."

"In all honesty, that occured to me as well." - Geralt admitted. - "Hanged Man's Tree is on wide open ground. No concealment for miles apart from the occasional rocks and bushes. Ill-fitting for an ambush attempt if they are operate with a larger warband. Don't you think that's suspicious?"

"They are preparing to take on someone who can be tied to the murder of kings." - Lambert said. - "At least the way I see it, you didn't exactly earn many friends with your involvement in higher circles. Honestly, those were some of Vesemir's first lessons-"

"Never dabble in politics, always tread with neutrality. I know." - Geralt nodded, averting his gaze. - "No need to remind me."

"Someone has to." - Lambert chided him. - "Especially since you are horribly incapable of sticking to it. If either Nilfgaard or some northern resistance group turns out to behind this, the responsibility is on your shoulders, Geralt. You didn't tell Emhyr about Ciri's survival, and it was you who destroyed Redenia's leadership, and thus any chances of them winning the war or reaching a stalemate with the black ones."

Geralt turned back, a flicker of anger in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry, forgot how sensitive you are." - Lambert grimaced. - "You can call me a prick or whatever else, Geralt, but that's the fucking truth. Ciri could be in danger because of _you_."

"All the more reason we should not dawdle." - Geralt cut the arguement short. - "I'd hate to keep the whoresons waiting."

Lambert nodded, not feeling up to opening the wound on Geralt's conscience any further. - "So, which path are we taking? Straight to Mulbrydale down the southwest road, then up north?"

"No." - Geralt stated. - "Last thing I heard, that trail was getting infested by monsters. Ghouls, most prominently. Normally wouldn't mind, but with Zoltan and his fellows, we have to be mindful." - he explained himself - "Instead, we'll undertake the northwest road, move past Codgers' Quarry, approach directly from north. Much less debris and coverage in the way. If trouble stirs, we'll see it coming in good time."

"Alright." - the fellow witcher acknowledged. - "I'll tell Zoltan. You scout ahead a bit in the meantime." - and with that said, he turned his horse about, gently trotting to Zoltan's group.

Geralt grasped his medallion tightly. Much as he didn't like Lambert's brutally outspoken honesty, he had a good point. If Ciri's identity was uncovered, there were many, many powerful groups who'd be taking interest in her. They may not necessarily have to subdue her with force or magic - just keep some people hostage whom she cares about, and extort her. If that was the case... it was better to not think about it at all. - "I'm coming, Ciri." - he mumbled to himself. - "I will find you. I will help you. Just stay safe."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Witcher: A Deep Mark**

 **Chapter 6.**

Ciri was hovering above the world, high above the surface which wallowed in its own gangrenous muck. Ever so briefly, she was free as a bird, afar from crimes borne of despair and wickedness alike, away from any and all wailing, weeping, roaring and screams. It was strangely refreshing, enthralling even - ignorance is bliss, or so have sages said. She felt at ease, and looking upwards, ever higher, she felt the very stars themselves were within her reach, their glitter gracing the sky solely to entertain her. She could glimpse into infinity, across spheres; the fabric of the cosmos itself was opening ripe before her eyes, offering adventures and thrills she never even dreamt of.

It was a charming opportunity. Just another step through the unseen barrier seperating her from the outer space and she'll leave the mire of her home behind - a wretched little speck of dust suspended in broken beams of light. One last step, and she will ascend into some great vastness. Yet as she reached her hands out, she became hesitant; as her fingertips touched the emptyness between worlds, it was not freedom that she felt, but frozen indifference that chilled her to the bone. She pondered if this was a malignant trickery, some enigmatic magic to keep her senses deceived, discourage her from crossing this threshold - or whether she was in the right to have doubts; that her place was never meant to be there, amidst the sterile, uncaring aeons, opening her mind to secrets that would cut her being asunder like flaying knives.

Powerful as she was, she was facing up to a sad truth. She looked downwards, accepting what she saw - the pestilential plains, the bellowing oceans, the slowly eroding hills, the earth-shredding mountains, the withering forests, the hellish duneseas and ice-covered necrotic lands. This is where she came from, and like it or not, this is where beings close to her heart dwell, despite all the madness and disdain. Who is she then, truly, to reject and dismiss their struggles?

This was on her mind when, through the misty clouds, she beheld something. One grain of sand in human shape, one out of millions, yet it had a distinct pair of eyes like glaciers in a blizzard. It was not the ghastly swordsman, Leo Bonhart; not the lunatic megalomaniac Vitzgefort; not the putrid hearted king of the Wild Hunt, Eredin. She had put them all behind her; this was someone else. As soon as she recognized him, she felt less like a bird, and more like a falling meteor; the world reclaimed its hold on her. She closed her eyes, bracing herself. Yet the landscape accepted her arrival gently, without impact. The weights of fear dripped from her eyelashes, and at last, she dared to see.

It wasn't at all what she expected; she was deep down dark, below the earth's skin, in a dank womb of darkness and decay. She heard muffled crying, beholding a child in a corner; a boy, not much older than six, maybe seven winters at best. He was alone, around him nothing but skeletal remnants of those like him. He no longer wanted to live; he was a last survivor, envying the dead. Ciri wanted to comfort him, but she could not speak; she was never there. She never met that child. She never stood in that wound in the ground, as the child pleaded the wind to creep down and sweep him away.

Someone approached, all of sudden; his cat eyes and medallion spoke clearly of his occupation, as did the head of a wight upon his trophy hood, ruptured by silver as it was. The child saw him, and there was uncertainty in his eyes whether he just exchanged one tormentor for another. The answer came without words; the man picked him up with one arm, letting him cry on his shoulder as he carried him home.

Ciri followed after them; there was something about the whole scene that was eerily inviting, like chapters from a story book, urging for the pages to be turned. Next thing she knew, the child was back home, but he felt no joy at the sight of his own parents. Perhaps he did once, long before he grew up; but that memory was as distant as it was corrupted by contempt. Soon, she learned why. The witcher demanded payment; there was none. He invoked a law that Ciri was familiar with. For a moment, the couple were hesitant; the witcher dislodged the wight's head from his hook, his voice as dead in Ciri's dream as it was in life: - " _Deals should be honored._ " - that was all he said; the man and woman handed their child over.

She turned the pages of the boy's life in her mind. Three years passed, until the witcher lay on the ground, in the same way he was born: in a pool of blood. He found his end not by the claws of some rancid beast, but at the hands of hateful mortals. The child was claimed by a monk who roused a rabble to violence; he bore the mark of an eternally blazing fire, and wished to invoke it within the boy as well. He never succeeded; not truly. The child would hold onto a memento from the witcher: his medallion. Looking at his reflection within it, he remembered the one and only lesson he learned: his fate would never be of his own decision. Perhaps it was because of this deeply rooted belief, or a cruel twist of fortune, but fate has proven him right.

Ciri couldn't resist the temptation. She was skimming the days, weeks, months, years. She saw faces and names; Jacque de Aldersberg. Stregobor. Azar Javed. Radovid. Caleb Menge. With each name and face came scars, disfigurement, graying hair, gritted teeth, and bloodsoaked hands. Then came silence and nothingness - this empty shell of man, used like a tool passed between one handler to the next, had no goals to live for. No aspirations. He was a corpse within already, even though he never, ever lived, not as he would have wanted to in his most buried, treasured moments of daydreaming fantasies. He was in a tavern, like so many others whom history seldom remembers; he cursed his fate plentifully, each lashing of tongue spitting vocal poison around him. But it was his last, venomless wish that brought him ruination.

Someone has heard it, and everything was frozen in stillness - save for the time-strained child and his new, kindly benefactor. He was a baldly shaven, middle-aged man who listened to his woes. He smiled a sincere smile as the elderly boy emptied his soul before him; his eyes were a couple of dead suns, and the motionless shadow that sat beside him was not of a man at all. Ciri tilted her head quizzically. She felt at once repulsed, yet overwhelmingly compelled to take a closer look at him, when all too unexpectedly, the man glanced at her.

She could not bear it longer than a fraction of a second, forcefully pushing the phantom image aside, moving towards the culmination of the boy's life, rapidly moving the pages of time, hoping she will never meet that strange man's gaze again. She blinked in surprise; at the end of it all, she was back in the village, where she took the contract for the Nekkers. The aged boy strolled in with grim determination, knowing full well what must be done. He asked about Ciri from the locals, but his attire and demenaor did not earn him cooperation, only scorn. Some mocked his looks; others said he would bring ill seasons with the stare of his evil eyes. A few threatened to hurt him for just being there, saying he was scaring the kids and their wives. He took it all in stride, until he found a bunch of good-for-nothing dregs, amongst them someone with an orange, feathered hat, who were banding together with a singular intention: they would subdue the witcheress, so the villagers would not have to pay. They needed each and every coin for winter, and the self-interested young noble who coerced them promised good payment for having the exotic girl and her unique weapons granted to him.

A red mist descended on the newcomer's mind. When it lifted, he was alone, like once, in a cave. He pulled off a glove, looking at his palm; Ciri leaned closer, seeing a brand that was unfamiliar. The boy, now a man, pulled back the heavy leather, picking up the chain and cuff which the villagers prepared for her. Ciri's eyes met those of a bounty hunter.

" _Deals should be honored._ " - Mangler said to her, and strapped the cuff on her neck.

Ciri woke up reeling and gasping.

She needed a minute to regain her composure. She was in the place where they took shelter after the boat ride last night: in a dirty, forsaken hovel near the riverbank, a couple beams missing from the roof overhead, letting a few meager sunrays to shine through. She was resting on the floor with some rags they took from the bandits serving as her pillow and blanket. Mangler was sleeping on the other side of the single room the were forced to share, snoring like a pig on a wooden bedframe which was barely covered by some textiles anymore. Iorveth was nowhere to be seen; perhaps he stood guard, or just preferred to sleep in open space. Ciri sighed, massaging her forehead. Her mind was hazy from that weird dream - too many images and voices, most of them fleeting, but there were a number of impressions which lingered within her still.

She crept closer to Mangler, who was busy dreamlessly wasting away, one of his arms having fallen off the bed, resting against the floorbeams. Ciri tilted her head, trying to recall some detail from her vivid dream. Was it his left hand, or his right? In all honesty, in any other situation, she would have dismissed the entire nightmare as a heap of rubbish nonsense. But her previous dream carried hints of truth as well - such as figuring out they were headed for Hanged Man's Tree, at any rate. After a brief moment of hesitation, she reached out and gently started to pull the glove off...

...only to find a knife at her throat the very next moment, her looted gambeson grabbed onto by the hand she sought to undress, and Mangler's blood-shot eyes staring at her face. The dagger was much like a small-scale version of Mangler's sword, serrated on the lower half and all. Ciri let out a meek squeal, but before she could muster the will and force to counterattack, Mangler let go of her already. He was breathing heavily. - "Gods damn you, you sword-addict harlot, startling me like that!" - he complained. - "I could have killed you by accident!" - he glimpsed down on his hand, noticing his glove slid off, and Ciri was holding it. - "What were you trying to do?" - he questioned her.

"I, uh..." - Ciri was uncertain whether she should explain, and instead came up with something else instead: - "I was planning to cut your throat in your sleep and run off. I just wanted a trophy first."

"Cut my throat." - Mangler tilted his head. - "With no knife?"

Ciri held up her hands, fingers outstretched. - "I have nails."

"Under gloves, like mine." - Mangler pointed it out.

"Because they are sharp." - Ciri bent her fingers, imitating claws, putting up a grimace for full effect. - "Like a striga's. Rawr."

Mangler sat up, barely able to hide his amusement. - "Then you are the most adorable maneater I have ever met." - he took notice of the Sun's meager rays shining through the holes above; it was fairly early morning. Mangler sighed, sliding the dagger back to its place, in a hidden sheath in his left boot, and massaged his back; he slightly strained the back muscles with this sudden outlash.

Ciri stood up, walking to her side of the hovel, untying her hair and fixing it up. - "I want to talk a while." - she stated.

The bounty hunter shrugged his shoulders. - "What am I, your next substitute father?" - he grunted.

"Well, provided you can kill Geralt, I'm going to need a new one anyhow." - Ciri responded nonchalantly, thoroughly certain that was not going to happen. - "Since I woke you up and all, we might as well pass the time. Where is the elf, for instance?"

"Sent him out scouting." - Mangler said - "I have another acquaintance in these parts. Trustworthy, but bit of a moron, if you get my drift. Iorveth is out to meet up with him. He's easy to track, so to say. Even if he lost directions, our scoia'tael friend will find him."

Ciri looked at him curiously. Another addition to her escort? The repulsive bounty hunter was full of surprises, but she decided not to ask for details. She'll see the man for himself when the time comes. - "I see. How are your wounds?" - Ciri inquired, noticing his leg bandage needed a change.

"It is completely hopeless. I'm going to live. Sorry to disappoint you." - Mangler smirked, albeit with a slight pain distorting his smile. - "We might as well make breakfast." - with that said, he knelt down, plucking his finger into a gaping hole on the floor wood, and pulled a plank up entirely, pulling up a small but elongated metal chest from a hole carved under the floorbeams, revealing a cache of vodka, dark brown bread, pickled vegetables and dried meat. Seeing Ciri's dumbfounded expression, Mangler explained himself: - "I planned ahead." - he opened up a vodka bottle and downed a few gulps, before speaking to Ciri again: - "Well, don't just stand there. I won't get much more talkative on an empty stomach. Get the fireplace burning and some sticks to put the bread and meat on. Hop to it!"

Ciri folded her arms defiantly. - "How dare you order me around, knave! I am a princess, remember? Do the chores yourself. You abducted me without consent, the least you could do is treat me with hospitality. I deserve to be spoiled." - she retorted.

"One more word out of her majesty's mouth, and I won't feed her naught but scraps." - Mangler answered, his tone indicative of his increasingly foul mood. Ciri left, muttering some besmirching remarks. Mangler looked after her as she exited and slammed the door of the hovel behind her, causing a piece of the wood-beetle eaten doorframe to yield and fall down cracking. Mangler furrowed his eyebrows; just what in the blazes is on that woman-child's mind, to play around him like they are close compatriots or indulged in some similarly shitty kind of relationship? As much as he liked the fact he could get her to follow him of her own volition, this was suspiciously too much progress after a single day, especially in light of the first impression he left on her.

At any rate, Ciri complied. The hovel's fireplace was set alight, and after Mangler grabbed a few bites and another swing of vodka, Ciri could see he was loosening up a bit, the cold morning's breeze left behind. She took the chance at striking up a conversation that she wanted to have since she woke up: - "Listen... I think I realized something. You lied to me, bounty hunter. About more than one thing."

"Oh, my." - Mangler grimaced. - "Is that so? Truly, I am irredeemable. And you are hopelessly guillable to believe men like me always say the truth. But I guess that's what makes you endearing!" - he laughed with a mouthful of bacon at his crude remark.

Ciri gazed at her with an unphased, stoic expression. She would not be let astray by his antics. - "Pardon me. I phased it in the wrong way. You didn't so much as lie, but purposefully presented thruths in a perplexing manner. Take for instance, those villagers you killed. They didn't object to your intention because they disagreed with it. Did they?"

Mangler was chewing on the bread when Ciri's question hit his ears; awkwardly, he stopped, as if contemplating what she was on about. He swallowed the piece, then spoke to her: - "There was some rich brat of a bard in there. You fascinated him. Tickled his fancy. He wanted to have you. He had money, and the village had greedy field-hands. When I showed up, I inquired after you. The bard made me an offer, too. Those swiwel-coated whoresons he previously bartered with got temperamental, saying I was going to ruin the deal they were making. I told them all I wasn't interested and that they can plough themselves. I had my own reasons to catch you, remember? I don't like competition. It got out of hand quickly, a few braziers and torches got knocked over during it all, and everyone was running for life. Before I knew it, I scared the whole village away. Had no choice but to wait for your return, since I had no pointers as to where you were moving. What does it matter? In the end, I'm still a killer, and you are still my hostage."

"And the chains and cuff were not yours." - Ciri added, unflinching. - "You took them from those men's dead hands. You claimed them for yourself because you didn't bring any, and you feared I won't be swayed by your persuasion alone. And after you shed all that blood, you knew I would not listen to reason."

Mangler chuckled for a bit, but Ciri could easily tell he was faking it. He turned to her, with an uncertain look in his eyes. - "A convoluted theory, little swallow. Have you grown so reliant on my good graces in such a short timespan, that you fantasise on me having some frail little golden heart kept deep under my rough exteriour? Come now, you don't believe that garbage yourself. Any other groundbreaking revelations at your offer, or you actually need alcohol to sober up?"

Ciri looked him straight in the eyes. - "You never even met Geralt. You know him not, except his deeds. He caused harm to men you served, but you feel nothing for them. What you do feel, however, is _envy_."

All too sudden, the bounty hunter dropped his roasting stick, and grabbed Ciri's cheek forcefully, his other hand latching on his hidden dagger. - "Keep your mouth shut, _witch_. Did you forget who I am?!" - he was grumbling angrily, before giving Ciri's face a push, causing her to drop to the floor on her behind. Mangler got up on his feet, but let go of his blade, shaking only a clenched fist towards Ciri: - "I beat you to submission! I dragged you after me in chains! And before this week is out, I'm going to tear off your witcher nanny's head and shit down his neck!"

Ciri's fleeting sympathy turned to fury, and she rolled to the corner where her swords were put, drawing her silver one... only to see Mangler was headed outside, ignoring her. - "Don't you dare turn your back on me!" - Ciri yelled. - "Face me so I can maim you properly!"

"Later!" - Mangler yelled back, as he picked up his sword which he put next to the door. - "Got to clear my head first of your bewitchment!"

"Oh, I'm _so_ deeply sorry..." - Ciri stated in a resentful, provoking tone - "...that I dared to even think there was anything good left in you, _child!_ But I can see you died alone a long, long time ago."

Mangler stopped in his steps, looking back. Ciri fell silent, her jaw dropping in surprise of what she said, without knowing whence the words even came from. For a prolonged moment, they just stared at one another. Mangler shook his head, and stepped outside, not even bothering to close the door behind him. Ciri looked blankly before her. Guided by a morbid sensation, she raised up Zireael, looking at her reflection in the silvery blade. Her eyes were green, as they had always been. She sighed in relief, then sat down by the fireplace again, to finish her meal alone.

It tasted more sour than before.


End file.
